THE 


POEMS 


EMMA   C    EMBURY. 


FIRST  COLLECTED  EDITION. 


NEW   YORK: 

PUBLISHED   BY    KURD   AND    HOUGHTON. 
:  Ztfbersftte  Dress. 
1869. 


ps 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  iS6q,  by 

ANNA  K.  SHELDON, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


RIVERSIDE.    CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  BY  H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 


'HOUGH  the  claim  of  Mrs.  Emma  C.  Embury  to 
a  place  among  the  poets  of  our  land   has  long 
been  established,  no  complete  edition  of  her  po 
etical  works  has  ever  before  been  published. 

The  compilation  of  the  present  volume  has  been  alto 
gether  a  labor  of  love,  and  no  revision  nor  emendation  of 
the  poems  has  been  attempted. 

They  are  published  in  the  order  in  which  they  were 
written,  with  the  exception  of  two  of  the  "  Sketches  from 
History,"  which,  although  written  at  a  later  date,  are  in 
cluded  with  those  published  with  "  Guido  "  in  1828,  under 
the  nom  de plume  of  "  lanthe." 

In  the  years  which  have  elapsed  since  the  publication 
of  that  volume,  the  pen  has  become  familiar  to  woman's 
hand,  and  crowds  of  aspirants  now  claim  the  meed  of 
fame  that  was  then  awarded  to  but  few.  The  poetic  taste 
of  the  age  has  changed  also,  and  we  have  more  poems  of 
the  intellect  than  of  the  affection  ;  but  many  hearts  will 
still  respond  to  the  glowing  strains  of  her  who  has  been 
not  unaptly  styled  "  The  Hemans  of  America  ;  "  for  in  her 
own  expressive  words,  prefacing  a  little  volume  entitled 
•"Love's  Token-Flowers,"  published  in  1854,  "However 
changed  may  be  the  tone  which  now  echoes  from  j  the 
b 


iv  PREFACE. 

world's  great  heart,  there  are  some  chords  in  human  na 
ture  that  must  ever  vibrate  to  the  soft  and  gentle  touch 
of  affection." 

Mrs.  Emma  C.  Embury,  the  gifted  author  of  this  vol 
ume,  was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  James  R.  Manly,  an  emi 
nent  physician  of  New  York,  distinguished  not  only  for 
professional  ability,  but  also  for  his  quick  sensibilities 
and  fine  conversational  powers.  From  him  his  daughter 
doubtless  inherited  that  peculiar  sensitiveness,  which  com 
bined  with  her  rarer  gifts  to  form  a  woman  of  ardent  sym 
pathies  and  brilliant  genius.  As  a  child  she  was  most 
precocious,  and  learned  to  read  almost  intuitively.  She 
early  developed  a  talent  for  compositions,  and  her  juvenile 
productions  are  remarkable  for  their  graceful  and  flowing 
rhythm.  Under  the  pseudonym  of  "  lanthe,"  she  contrib 
uted  to  the  periodicals  of  the  day,  and  may  be  considered 
among  the  pioneers  of  female  literature  among  us.  She 
married  early,  and  in  her  married  life  was  singularly  happy. 
Her  husband,  the  late  Daniel  Embury,  Esq.,  of  Brooklyn, 
was  a  gentleman  of  fine  talents  and  rare  intellectual  attain 
ments  ;  as  a  mathematician,  he  ranked  second  to  none  in 
the  country,  while  his  extensive  reading,  courtly  manners, 
and  genial  hospitality,  rendered  his  companionship  at 
once  delightful  and  instructive.  He  appreciated  fully  the 
peculiar  talents  of  his  wife,  and  in  every  way  encouraged 
their  development  ;  together  they  drew  around  them  the 
charmed  circle  of  refinement  and  intelligence,  and  doubt 
less  many  still  remember,  with  regretful  pleasure,  those 
delightful  reunions  which  the  elegant  hospitality  and  bril 
liant  conversation  of  the  gifted  host  and  hostess,  rendered* 
occasions  of  rare  enjoyment.  It  was  an  oft  repeated  re- 


PREFACE.  V 

mark  of  Mrs.  Embury,  "  Unless  she  read,  she  could  not 
write,"  and  her  earlier  poems  were  doubtless  toned  in  har 
mony  with  the  poets  she  loved  the  best  ;  later,  her  origi 
nality  asserted  .itself,  and  her  productions  glow  with  self- 
enkindled  fire.  The  peculiar  melodiousness  of  her  verse 
rendered  her  one  of  the  most  graceful  of  song  writers, 
while  the  impassioned  earnestness  of  her  nature,  her  scorn 
of  injustice,  her  quick  sympathy  with  the  oppressed,  found 
expression  in  her  poems,  and  running  like  an  electric 
thread  throughout  them,  awaken  the  deeper  and  higher 
emotions  of  the  soul.  In  prose  writing  she  confined  her 
self,  almost  entirely  to  magazine  writing  ;  her  stories  were 
extremely  popular ;  they  were  easily  written,  of  sound 
moral  purpose,  and  sparkled  with  wit  and  fancy.  As  a 
conversationalist,  Mrs.  Embury  has  rarely  been  excelled  ; 
possessing  a  trenchant  wit  and  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridic 
ulous,  there  were  a  few  who  feared  while  they  admired 
her,  but  these  few  did  not  know  of  the  warm  and  quick 
sensibilities  that  lay  beneath,  and  that  would  not  willfully 
inflict  a  wound.  Her  reading  was  extensive  and  varied, 
her  memory  retentive,  her  adaptation  rapid,  and  her  lan 
guage  forcible  and  graceful.  The  centre  of  a  large  circle, 
which  numbered  among  its  members  many  of  the  bright 
est  names  in  literature,  she  shone,  even  as  '•  a  bright,  par 
ticular  star."  The  head  of  a  well  ordered  household,  a 
tender  and  devoted  wife  and  mother,  an  active  and  sym 
pathizing  friend,  she  passed  many  years  in  a  constant 
discharge  of  her  varied  duties,  her  energy  and  executive 
ability  rendering  her  fully  equal  to  all  emergencies.  For 
her  to  resolve  and  to  act  was  almost  simultaneous  ;  to 
hear  of  distress  was  to  relieve  it ;  to  sympathize  with 


VI  PREFACE. 

friends,  was  to  assist  them  by  counsel,  by  cheer,  by  ten 
der  pity,  by  whatever  they  seemed  most  to  need,  that  she 
could  give  them.  In  the  midst  of  this  useful  and  brilliant 
career  she  was  stricken  down  by  an  illness  from  which 
she  never  rallied,  and  for  the  last  few  years  of  her  life  she 
became  an  invalid,  totally  withdrawn  from  the  world  •  but 
she  had  not  waited  until  the  waning  sun  warned  of  the 
coming  night,  to  begin  her  work  ;  in  her  own  beautiful 
words,  she  began  to 

' '  Labor  on  while  yet  the  light  of  day 
Shed  abroad  its  pure  and  blessed  ray," 

and  so,  when  the  sudden  gloom  overshadowed  her,  she 
was  not  found  idly  over  her  task  ;  her  work  was  taken 
from  her  hands,  but  not  until  she  had  inscribed  her  name 
high  up  upon  life's  scroll,  and  done  her  part  to  "-rouse  the 
world's  great  heart  "  to  higher  aspirations,  leaving  behind 
her,  in  the  spirit  of  prophecy,  the  impressive  teaching,  — 

"  Diverse  though  our  paths  in  life  may  be, 
Each  is  sent  a  mission  to  fulfill ; 
Fellow  workers  in  the  world  are  we, 
While  we  seek  to  do  our  Master's  will. 

"  Fellow  workers  are  we  ;  hour  by  hour 
Human  tools  are  shaping  Heaven's  great  schemes, 
Till  we  see  no  limit  to  man's  power, 
And  reality  outstrips  old  dreams  ; 
Toil  and  struggle,  therefore,  work  and  weep  ; 
In  Cod's  acre  yc  shall  calmly  sleep 
When  the  night  cometh  !  " 


CONTENTS. 


GUIDO * 

SKETCHES  FROM  HISTORY. 

Jane  of  France 16 

.Scenes  in  the  Life  of  a  Lover 20 

Queen  Elizabeth 26 

The  Death  of  Queen  Elizabeth           ...  29 

Boscobel 32 

The  Lament  of  Columbus 36 

The  Shipwreck  of  Camoens 39 

Lament  of  Camoens .  42 

The  Pool  of  Bethesda 44 

Christ  in  the  Tempest         .....  46 

The  Surrender  of  Calais 49 

Mary's  Lament 52 

FRAGMENT 54 

THE  SISTERS 55 

EDGAR  AND  ADA 59 

THE  MOTHER 64 

MINA       .        .         .        .        .         •        .        -                 •        •  68 

THE  BRIDE        ........  -73 

L'lMPROVISATRICE 75 

THE  SHEPHERD  BOY .  .      81 

CLARA 84 

THE  LONELY  ONE .  .      87 

AN  HOUR  OF  SADNESS           .                 .                         .        .  91 

To  FRANCESCA           ...                 ....  93 

LOVE 94 

To  THE  EVENING  STAR 96 


vin  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To  FANCY      ..........  98 

MIDNIGHT 101 

LOVE  SLEEPING 102 

To  103 

STANZAS 104 

LIFE 105 

SONG  OF  THE  FAIRIES .  106 

FRAGMENT 107 

To  108 

WILLIAM  TELL  ON  THE  MOUNTAINS 109 

WILLIAM  TELL  IN  CHAINS 110 

LINES  ON  HEARING   OF  THE  DEATH  OF  A  VERY  BEAUTIFUL 
WOMAN  THREE  WEEKS  AFTER  HAVING  MET  HER  AT  A 

BALL in 

SWEET  REMEMBRANCE 113 

SYMPATHY 114 

A  DAY  DREAM 115 

THE  MOTHER'S  FAREWELL  TO  HER  WEDDED  DAUGHTER      .  116 

THE  DYING  YEAR 118 

SUNSET 119 

SABBATH  MORNING 121 

DEVOTION 122 

LINES  ON  READING  STANZAS  BY  F.  G.  HALLECK      .        .  123 

FILIAL  LOVE 124 

THE  EXCUSE 126 

To  MY  HARP 127 

THE  FAREWELL 128 

SONNET 130 

SPRING  BREEZES 130 

SONNET 132 

CONFIDENCE  IN  HEAVEN 132 

THE  TRANSPLANTED  FLOWERS 133 

SONG 134 

LOVE  UNSOUGHT 135 

SONNET 135 

THE  MAIDEN  TO  HER  REJECTED  LOVER         ....  136 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

THE  REMEMBRANCE  OF  YOUTH  is  A  SIGH  .  .  .  137 

GRATITUDE 138 

SONNET 139 

THE  WEARY  DAY 140 

THE  DYING  POET 141 

THE  FADED  PASSION-FLOWER 143 

LOVE'S  VIGIL 144 

To  145 

STANZAS  . 146 

LOVE  RETURNED 148 

SONG  OF  MORNING 150 

THE  MORAVIAN  BURIAL-GROUND 151 

THE  MINSTREL'S  LAST  SONG 155 

"PRAY  FOR  YOUR  QUEEN" 158 

CHARADE 159 

BALLAD 160 

TIME 161 

NAPOLEON  AT  SAINT  HELENA 163 

LAMENT  OF  THE  EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE  .  .  .  .  165 

STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  REICHSTADT  .  167 

MADAME  DE  STAEI 170 

THE  ANNIVERSARY 172 

THE  CONSUMPTIVE 173 

THE  WIDOW'S  WOOER 174 

LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HER  DEPARTURE  FOR 

ENGLAND 176 

STANZAS 177 

STANZAS 178 

ELEGIAC  STANZAS 180 

THE  LAST  VIOLET 181 

SONG 182 

LINES  ON  AN  OLD  PICTURE  OF  A  MONKISH  STUDENT  OF  THE 

MIDDLE  AGES 182 

STANZAS  TO  A  FRIEND  AFTER  A  LONG  SEPARATION  .  .  184 

THE  REFUSAL 185 

HAPPINESS 186 


x  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  FORSAKEN .187 

SONNET      . •  188 

STANZAS 189 

NIGHT        .                 .       - 19° 

BYRON  IN  THE  CERTOSA  CEMETERY 191 

STANZAS  WRITTEN   AFTER   THE  SECOND  READING  OF  "  Co- 

RINNA"        . 193 

To  MY  SISTER 195 

To  MY  FIRST-BORN 196 

STANZAS           .        . 198 

STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SISTER 200 

THE  WIFE'S  SONG 202 

ADIEU  OF  THE  EMPRESS  AMELIA  OF  BRAZIL  TO  THE  INFANT 

EMPEROR 203 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  SUMMER  FRIENDS  WHOM  I  MET  AT  WEST 

POINT 206 

LINES  ON  HEARING  MY  CHILDREN  SlNG        ....  2o8 

A  LAMENT 209 

STANZAS  ADDRESSED  TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HER  MARRIAGE         .  211 

To  MY  PARENTS 213 

STANZAS  ADDRESSED  TO  MY  FATHER  ON  NEW  YEAR'S  DAY  213 

PEACE 214 

THE  FAREWELL 216 

THE  THOUGHTLESS  WORD 217 

STANZAS  ON   BEING   ASKED   TO   WRITE  SOME  VERSES,  AT  A 

BRIDAL  PARTY 218 

STANZAS  WRITTEN   ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A  BIBLE  PRE 
SENTED  TO  A  BRIDE .        .219 

VIOLETS 220 

To  EMMA,  THREE  YEARS  OLD 222 

THE  AUTUMN  WALK 223 

STANZAS 224 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  FOR  A  CHARACTER  IN  A  TALE     .        .  226 
STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  Miss  CLINCH,  BETTER  KNOWN 

AS  "THYRZA" 227 

SONG       ...........  229 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

FRAGMENT 230 

SONNET 231 

THE  HYMN  IN  THE  TEMPEST 232 

LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  ACCIDENTALLY  MEETING  WITH  AN  OLD 

COPY  OF  THE  "MYSTERIES  OK  UDOLPHO"           .        .  236 

STANZAS 237 

THE  MOTHER'S  SOLACE 239 

AUTUMN  EVENING 241 

BALLAD 243 

STANZAS 245 

LINES 246 

THE  WIFE'S  OFFERING  ON  THE  NEW  YEAR           .         .        .  247 

THE  PASSING  YEAR 249 

THE  WIFE'S  SONG  ON  THE  NEW  YEAR          ....  252 

To  -  -254 

STANZAS ....  256 

STANZAS  FOR  Music 258 

TWELVE  YEARS  AGO 258 

"TOUJOURS  PERDRIX"           .......  261 

LINES  ON  A  PORTRAIT 262 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  ARTIST      .        .        .  264 

SONGS,  FROM  CONSTANCE  LATIMER 266 

THE  POETIC  IMPULSE 270 

FRAGMENT .271 

SONNETS  TO  THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON         ....  272 

SPIRITUAL  BEAUTY 273 

STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY                      .  274 
To  -                     ....                                                  -275 

COME  TO  ME,  LOVE •  277 

BALLAD       ....                                                   •        •  277 

STAN/AS •        •  279 

THE  ENGLISH  RIVER        .                                          ...  280 

THE  AMERICAN  RIVER  283 

STANZAS 2^5 

SONNET  TO    WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT,    WRITTEN    IMME 
DIATELY   AFTER   THE    PERUSAL   OF    HIS    POEMS         .            .  287 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  LITANY 288 

POESY 290 

DISTRUST            291 

SLIGHTED  LOVE 292 

STANZAS •  293 

LINES  TO  A  FRIEND 294 

SONNET 295 

THE  INCONSTANT 296 

A  CHARACTER 296 

RECKLESS  MIRTH 297 

I  WILL  NOT  LOVE  THEE 298 

INQUIETUDE 298 

A  GENTLE  HERITAGE  is  MINE 299 

SONG ....  301 

SONG 302 

NEVER  FORGET 303 

THE  ^EOLIAN  HARP 304 

"  SOMETHING  BEYOND  " 305 

THE  MOURNER'S  APPEAL 306 

SONNET  TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "VESTIGES  OF  CREATION"  307 
SONNET  ON  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  TWO  MARYS  AT  THE  TOMB 

OF  CHRIST 308 

SONNET 308 

THE  STAR-FLOWER 309 

THE  RUINED  MILL 312 

PORTRAITS 315 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  LAMENT 319 

PATIENT  LOVE        .........  320 

SONNET      .        .  • 322 

DREAMS           ..........  323 

ILLUSIONS 324 


STAN/.AS 


325 


SONNET .         .         .  -526 

SONNET  ON  HEARING  Music 327 

STANZAS ^27 

STANZAS 328 


CONTENTS.  Xlli 

l-AGE 

THE  WAYSIDE  BROOK 329 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BROOK 331 

SONG 332 

HOW  WILL  YE  THINK  OF  ME 334 

STANZAS  FOR  Music 335 

THE  PEASANT  GIRL'S  WISH 336 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  LAST  WISH  .        .        .        .  *     .        .        .  337 

THE  POET'S  PRAYER 340 

STANZAS 341 

WEARY  SPIRIT 343 

STANZAS,  WRITTEN  AFTER  LISTENING  TO  Music    .        .        .  344 

"  DOUBT  ME  NOT  " 345 

EPITAPHS  ON  A  YOUNG  LADY 347 

SONGS  FOR  Music 348 

THE  CHILD'S  DESTINY 352 

TIME'S  CHANGES 353 

SONG 354 

SONNET 354 

SONNET  ON  RECEIVING  SOME  VIOLETS  IN  MIDWINTER          .  355 

"  DUM  SPIRO,  SPERO" 356 

LINES  ON  SEEING  A  SEAL    WITH   THE   MOTTO  "  SEMPRE  LO 

STF.SSO  " 356 

LINES  ON  BURNING  SOME  OLD  JOURNALS  AND  LETTERS    .  357 

LAMENT  (OF  ONE  OF  THE  OLD  REGIME  }        .        .        .        .  359 

LINES  SENT  TO  A  FRIEND,  WITH  A  PERFUMED  "SACHET"  361 

THE  JEALOUS  LOVER'S  EXCUSE 361 

THE  PROPHECY 362 

STANZAS 363 

THE  GARDEN 365 

FRAGMENT 367 


POEMS. 


GUIDO. 

A    TALE. 

"  Dans  le  bonheur  d'autrui  je  cherche  mon  bonheur." 

CORNEILLE,  Le  Cid. 

PART  I. 

HE  halls  were  bright,  and  music  echoed  round, 
'&   While  merry  feet  responded  to  the  sound, 

As  light  as  is  the  gentle  rustling  heard 
When  the  fresh  leaves  by  evening's  breath  are  stirred  : 
Aye,  beautiful  were  those  resplendent  rooms, 
All   light,  and  flowers,  and  delicate  perfumes  ; 
While  many  a  brilliant  form  swept  gayly  by, 
With  lofty  step,  and  proudly  flashing  eye ; 
And  many  a  knight,  stern  on  the  battle-field, 
Taught  by  sweet  woman's  witchery  to  yield, 
Was  bowed  to  her  capricious  smile  ;  and  now 
'Twas  pleasant  to  behold  the  warrior  brow 
Bending  before  some  gentle  girl,  as  fair 
And  delicate  as  a  thing  all  light  or  air. 

Apart  from  the  gay  throng,  a  pale  youth  stood, 
As,  though  'mid  thousands,  still  in  solitude, 

i 


2  POEMS. 

Holding  a  simple  lyre  :  not  his  the  form 
That  ladies  love  to  look  on  and  to  charm  : 
Small,  slender,  boyish  was  his  figure  ;  pale 
His  sunken  cheek,  that  told  a  mournful  tale 
Of  early  suffering  ;  though  his  eye  v,as  proud, 
And  bright  as  flashes  from  the  thundercloud; 
His  thin  and  flexile  lips  seemed  meant  to  pour 
The  wealth  of  song,  but  not  the  honeyed  store 
Of  youthful  love  ;  and  though  his  raven  hair 
Fell  on  a  lofty  brow,  yet  early  care 
Had  left  its  foot-prints  on  if.     What  doth  he 
Amid  that  joyous  scene  of  revelry  ? 

He  was  the  castle's  lord,  and  he  in  truth 

Had  tasted  sorrow  ;  on  his  early  youth 

No  parents  kindly  smiled  ;  their  pride,  their  joy 

Was  centred  in  their  younger,  fairer  boy. 

The  mother  gazed  upon  the  charms  that  dwelt 

In  Julio's  noble  face,  until  she  felt 

Her  soul,  almost  with  loathing,  turn  away 

From  Guide's  pale  and  shrunken  form  :  each  day 

Guido  more  keenly  felt  this  ;  his  stern  sire 

Loved  the  proud  boy  who  stood  with  eye  of  fire 

To  hear  the  tale  of  battles  fierce  and  wild, 

But  turned  in  scorn  upon  his  feebler  child  : 

"  What,  comest  thou,  too  ?  no,  boy,  thy  woman's  hand 

Was  never  meant  to  grasp  the  blood-stained   brand  ; 

Julio's  high  heart  is  vowed  to   chivalry, 

But  nursery  legends  are  more  fit  for  thee." 

He  little  knew  the  being  he  despised  ! 

Guido  had  not  the  gifts  by  warriors  prized, 


GUI  DO.  3 

But  genius  o'er  his  soul  had  poured  its  light ; 
His  was  the  poet's  wreath,  and  O,  how  bright 
It  shone  o'er  wasted  feeling's  hopeless  night ! 
Dearly  the  brothers  loved  each  other :  birth 
Placed  Guido  first :  but  all  men  hold  of  worth,  — 
All  that  they  deem  the  richest  goods  of  heaven, 
Love,  beauty,  honor,  —  were  to  Julio  given  ; 
While  all  the  hapless  elder-born  could  claim 
Beyond  his  birthright,  was  a  minstrel's  fame. 
Yet  did  they  cling  together :  nought  could  speak 
To  Julio's  heart  like  Guido's  kindling  cheek ; 
And  praise  might  fall  upon  his  ear  in  vain, 
If  that  loved  voice  reechoed  not  the  strain  ; 
While  Guido  felt  as  if  not  quite  bereft 
Of  all  life's  joys,  since  Julio  yet  was  left. 

That  sire  was  dead,  that  brother  far  away, 

And  Guido  now  must  celebrate  the  day 

When  he  first  claimed  his  birthright ;  but  how  sad 

Was  his  young  heart  while  all  around  was  glad  ! 

He  felt  that  to  his  noble  name  he  owed 

The  homage  of  the  gay  and  thoughtless  crowd. 

He  knew  that,  had  he  been  the  younger  born, 

He  had  been  deemed  a  thing  that  men  might  scorn  ; 

And,  now  he  stood  apart  from  all,  a  smile 

Of  cold  contempt  curled  his  pale  lip  the  while 

That  they,  who  bowed  the  castle's  lord  to  greet, 

Should  think  him  duped  by  such  scarce-veiled  deceit. 

But  these  unkindly  feelings  were  not  made 

To  dwell  with  poesy  :  his  fingers  strayed 

Across  his  harp-strings,  then,  to  still  the  throng 

Of  wayward  thoughts,  he  calmed  them  thus  with  song :  — 


4  POEMS. 

Nay,  tell  me  not  of  woman's  charms  — 
Why  should  I  heed  though  she  be  fair; 

Bid  me  not  mark  those  brilliant  forms 
With  step  as  light  as  summer  air  — 

I  dare  not  heed  their  witchery, 

Since  beauty  was  not  meant  for  me. 

I  gaze  upon  the  lofty  brow  — 
But  changeless  is  its  snowy  hue; 

I  view  the  cheek  where  roses  glow, 
The  lip  where  love  sips  honey  dew  ; 

But  lip,  cheek,  brow  in  vain  I  see, 

Since  beauty  was  not  meant  for  me. 

Yet  I  have  dreamed  of  one  whose  cheek 
Upon  my  bosom  might  find  rest ; 

Whose  eye  in  love's  sweet  glance  might  speak, 
Whose  lip  might  to  mine  own  be  prest ; 

But  vain  must  all  such  visions  be, 

Since  beauty  was  not  meant  for  me. 

As  one  might  gaze  on  some  bright  star 
Lighting  yon  deep  blue  heaven  above, 

So  I  may  worship  from  afar, 

But  never  dare  to  hope  or  love  : 

Love's  star  is  bright  —  alas  for  me  ! 

It  shines  not  o'er  my  destiny. 

The  song  had  ceased;  but  still  the  minstrel  seemed 
Gazing  on  visions  he  too  oft  had  dreamed ; 
Till  the  low  tones  of  woman's  voice  awoke 


GUIDO.  I 

New  thoughts,  new  dreams ;  for  of  himself  she  spoke  : 
"  And  is  he  always  thus  —  so  sad  and  pale  ? 
Surely  that  brow  reveals  a  mournful  tale." 
He  started  —  turned  —  O  !  years  might  not  erase 
The  memory  of  that  young  and  lovely  face. 
Her  eye  met  his  full  gaze  —  a  deep  blush  shone 
O'er  her  fair  cheek  and  brow  —  then  —  she  was  gone. 
But  those  sweet  words  of  kind  and  gentle  feeling, 
The  look,  that  beamed  on  him  so  bright,  revealing 
All  woman's  pitying  tenderness,  now  fell 
On  Guido's  soul  like  some  bewitching  spell, 
Bidding  his  wayward  fantasies  depart, 
And  chasing  all  the  demon  from  his  heart. 

Where  is  he  now  ?     His  simple  lyre  thrown  by, 
With  joyous  smile  the  bard  is  seated  nigh 
That  graceful  girl.     E'en  had  she  not  been  fair 
Guido  had  found  some  trace  of  beauty  there  ; 
For  he  recalled  the  look,  the  low-breathed  word 
That  with  such  new-born  bliss  his  feelings  stirred. 
But  she  was  beautiful  ;  'twas  not  the  glow 
Of  simple  beauty  decked  her  cheek  and  brow  ; 
For  on  her  lofty  forehead  mind  had  made 
Its  visible  temple  ;  her  thick  tresses  strayed 
Down  on  her  neck,  as  if  they  feared  to  rest 
On  that  proud  brow,  but  loved  her  gentler  breast ; 
Her  eye  was  dark  as  midnight,  yet  as  bright 
As  if  no  tear  had  ever  dimmed  its  light ; 
Lovely  as  love's  first  dream  were  her  sweet  lips  — 
Sweet  as  the  honey  that  the  wild  bee  sips 
On  famed  Hymettus ;  the  pale,  pearl-like  hue 


6  POEMS. 

Of  her  soft  cheek  was  fair  as  if  it  drew 

Its  tint  from  purity  :  the  oval  face, 

So  like  some  sculptured  statue's  classic  grace, 

The  nobly-arching  brow,  the  veined  lid, 

'Neath  which  the  full  dark  eye  was  scarcely  hid, 

The  short,  curved  upper  lip, — aye,  Guido  dwelt 

On  all  these  charms,  until  his  spirit  felt 

As  though  it  looked  on  some  bright  deity  ; 

But  O  !  what  passing  joy  was  his  when  she 

Looked  kindly  on  him,  and,  with  gentle  wile, 

Sought  to  win  back  to  his  pale  lip  the  smile  ! 

The  crowd  have  passed  away,  and,  'mid  the  sighs 

Of  dying  odors,  Guido  lonely  lies 

Wrapt  in  fair  dreams  of  beauty ;  but  each  thought 

With  the  remembrance  of  one  face  is  fraught : 

He  oft  had  fancied,  but  to-night  he  feels 

How  much  of  sweetness  woman's  look  reveals. 


PART  II. 

ALAS  !  alas  for  me  !     I  cannot  sing 
Of  happiness  or  joy's  imagining  ; 
I  touch  my  wild  and  mournful  lyre  in  vain, 
It  but  returns  the  murmurings  of  pain  ; 
Or  if  perchance  I  strike  the  chord   of  love, 
It  breathes  the  plaintive  meanings  of  the  dove 
Who  wails  in  loneliness  her  long  lost  mate  : 
I  sing  of  love  —  but  love  left  desolate  ! 


GUIDO. 

Time  passed  away  —  how  rapidly  time  fleets, 

When  every  hour  is  redolent  of  sweets  ! 

'Tis  vain  to  trace  the  progress  of  love's  power  — 

What  eye  can  mark  the  springing  of  a  flower  ? 

All  those  impassioned  feelings  that  so  long 

Were  sealed  in  Guide's  heart,  the  countless  throng 

Of  early  hopes  and  fancies,  all  were  poured 

Upon  one  altar.     O,  how  rich  the  hoard 

Of  treasured  love  in  such  a  heart  must  be  ! 

And  must  its  sole  reward  be  misery? 

'Tis  vain  to  trace  the  progress  of  love's  power  — 

Love  was  not  here  the  plaything  of  an  hour  : 

They  walked  together,  and  the  lovely  face 

Of  nature  wore  for  Guido  richer  grace  ; 

And  e'en  the  breath  of  heaven  more  perfume  cast, 

When  o'er  Floranthe's  cheek  and  lip  it  past ; 

They  read  together,  and  new  beauties  shone 

Upon  the  poet's  page,  till  then  unknown. 

Ah,  woman's  eye  may  charm,  but  there  is  nought 

That  with  such  peril  to  man's  heart  is  fraught, 

As  when  he  breathes  the  poet's  thoughts  that  burn 

With  passionate  energy,  and  those  eyes  turn 

With  pleasure  on  him ;  or  when  both  are  stirred 

With  simultaneous  feeling;  though  no  word 

Is  uttered,  yet  the  meeting  look,  the  smile, 

Betray  how  they  have  felt  alike  the  while; 

Or  when,  with  gentle  care,  he  leads  her  mind 

To  loftier  energies  and  thought  refined, 

And  she  is  blushing,  half  with  shame  to  know 

She  needs  such  knowledge,  half  with  joy,  to  owe 

Its  wealth  to  him  :  aye,  Guido  knew  too  well 


8  POEMS. 

How  strongly  this  may  aid  love's  powerful  spell : 

Within  his  breast  self-love  too  had  its  part 

(Ever  an  active  spirit  in  man's  heart) : 

He  oft  had  known  the  voice  of  praise,  but  ne'er 

Till  now  had  heard  its  tones  from  lips  so  dear ; 

His  song  had  called  forth  tears  in  those  bright  eyes, 

And  could  the  minstrel  ask  a  richer  prize  ? 

And  yet  Floranthe  loved  him  not  —  the  pride 

Of  womanhood  had  taught  her  how  to  hide 

Her  struggling  feelings ;  but  she  well  had  known 

Those  sorrows  so  peculiarly  love's  own. 

So  young,  and  proud,  and  beautiful,  and  born 

To  princely  honors  —  could  there  be  a  thorn 

Amid  these  flowers  of  life  ?     The  heart  replies  — 

There  dwells  no  balm  in  earthly  vanities 

To  soothe  a  wounded  spirit ;  and  the  sway 

Of  the  wide  universe  can  ne'er  repay 

One  who  beholds  love's  early  hopes  decay. 

She  was  a  high  souled  woman :  her  proud  race 

Had  ever  won  Ambition's  loftiest  place : 

What  marvel,  then,  that,  from  her  childhood,  she 

Should  dwell  on  the  wild  tales  of  chivalry? 

She  loved  to  roam  alone  through  the  rich  halls 

Where  pictured  shades  of  heroes  decked  the  walls, 

Until  a  dream  was  formed  within  her  heart 

Which  no  cold  light  of  truth  could  bid  depart  : 

A  visioned  form  too  beautiful  to  fade, 

Within  her  breast  its  dwelling-place  had  made  ; 

And  e'en  when  lofty  ones  before  her  bowed, 

She  gladly  turned  from  the  adoring  crowd 


GUIDO. 

To  meet  her  spirit-love.     There  was  one  name 

She  oft  had  heard  breathed  by  the  voice  of  fame  ; 

And  half  unconsciously  her  visions  bright 

Were  linked  with  fancies  of  that  wondrous  knight. 

At  length  a  tournament  was  held,  and  fair 

Was  the  array  of  youth  and  beauty  there. 

Queen  of  the  festival  Floranthe  shone, 

The  palm  of  peerless  beauty  hers  alone ; 

And  O,  what  feelings  then  her  bosom  swelled, 

When  first  that  youthful  hero  she  beheld  ! 

And  O,  how  richly  did  her  young  cheek  glow, 

When  first  she  placed  upon  his  bending  brow 

The  laurel  crown  !       The  idol  of  her  dreams, 

Bright  with  the  light  of  glory's  sunny  beams, 

Now  stood  before  her,  and  she  felt  how  faint 

Were  fancy's  tints  a  form  like  his  to  paint. 

From  that  hour  she  was  changed  —  the  holy  flame 

Which  long  was  fostered  by  the  breath  of  fame, 

Now,  like  the  vestal's  sacred  fire,  had  won 

A  purer  radiance  from  its  parent   sun  : 

That  knight  was  Julio  :  hence  it  was  that  she 

With  pity  looked  on  Guido's  misery. 

He  was  the  brother  of  her  love,  and  though 

Nature  had  traced  no  beauty  on  his  brow, 

His  voice,  so  like  to  Julio's,  her  heart  stirred, 

Like  music  o'er  the  moon-lit  waters  heard  ; 

And  in  his  eyes  she  saw  the  same  sweet  light 

That  oft  in  Julio's  glances  shone  so  bright. 

Why  does  my  song  thus  linger?     The  dark  day 
Of  strife  was  gone,  and  peace  resumed  her  sway. 


10  POEMS. 

E'en  as  the  prophet's  wand  could  once  unlock 

The  hidden  waters  of  the  riftless  rock, 

So  thou,  sweet  Peace,  from  iron  hearts  can  bring 

Th'  unwonted  freshness  of  affection's  spring  ; 

Till  spurns  the  haughty  chief  his  plumed  crest, 

And  clasps  his  smiling  infant  to  his  breast, 

While  the  proud  soldier  turns  from  scenes  of  war, 

Rejoiced  to  worship  beauty's  gentler  star. 

And  'mid  the  mailed  warriors  Julio  came, 

His  brow  encircled  with  its  wreaths  of  fame. 

No  more  alone  with  Guido  now  were  past 

Floranthe's  happiest  hours ;  for  Love  had  cast 

His  spell  around  them,  and  beneath  his  wing 

Hope  dared  unfold  her  fragile  blossoming  ; 

For  well  could  she,  in  Julio's  eye,  discern 

(Ah,  when  was  woman  slow  such  tales  to  learn  ?) 

The  growing  tenderness  within  his  breast, 

The  love  that  made  her  all  too  wildly  blest. 

But  where  was  Guido?     Did  not  he  too   see 

Within  those  tell-tale  eyes  Love's  mastery? 

One  night  there  was  a  festival,  and  all 

Of  brave  and  lovely  decked  the  joyous  hall ; 

Guido  beheld  Floranthe's  gentle  hand 

Meet  Julio's  in  the  graceful  saraband  ; 

Yet  this  was  nothing  ;  but  when  the  light  dance 

Was  ended,  and  he  saw  the  thrilling  glance 

Exchanged  between  them,  and  her  slender  form 

So  tenderly  upheld  by  Julio's   arm, 

While  she  repaid  him  with  a  timid  look 

Of  soft  confiding  love,  he  could  not  brook 

Longer  to  gaze  upon  that  blasting  sight  ; 


GUI  DO. 

Quickly  he  turned  away  —  a  mirror  bright 
Met  his  full  gaze  ;  reflected  there,  his  own 
Pale,  sunken  cheek,  and  wasted  figure  shone. 
Then  on  his  heart,  like  lightning  flashes,  came 
The  truth  that  woke  despair's  undying  flame. 
O !  there  are  moments  when  the  heart  lives  o'er 
Ages  of  sorrow,  when  the  eyes  can  pour 
No  gentle  flood  to  ease  the  throbbing  head  ; 
But  as  if  one  among  the  mouldering  dead 
Should  start  to  life,  and  vainly  strive  to  burst 
His  prison-house,  so  that  sad  being,  curst 
With  such  o'erwhelming  grief,  in  vain  would  find 
A  refuge  from  the  horrors  of  the  mind. 


PART  III. 

IT  was  a  lovely  summer  eve  ;  the  bay 

As  calmly  as  a  slumbering  infant  lay  : 

Floranthe  sat  within  her  lonely  bower, 

Her  heart  filled  with  strange  feelings  ;  the  calm  hour 

To  her  brought  no  tranquillity ;  the  bright 

And  glowing  west,  the  clouds  of  rosy  light, 

She  gazed  upon  but  saw  not,  and  she  heard 

Not  e'en  a  sound  ;  altho'  the  mild  breeze  stirred 

And  made  sweet  music  in  the  leaves,  her  ear 

Was  all  unheeding  ;  but  there  was  one  near 

Who  long  had  gazed  on  her  ;  the  breeze  had  fanned 

The  clustering  ringlets  from  her  cheek  ;  her  hand, 


12  POEMS. 

As  delicate  as  a  wreath  of  new  fallen  snow, 

Was  pressed  against  her  wildly  throbbing  brow, 

And,  but  that  on  her  cheek  there  dwelt  a  flush 

Like  young  Aurora's  rosy-tinted  blush, 

And  but  for  her  bright  lip,  she  might  have  seemed 

A  changeless  statue  ;  but  she  little  deemed 

He  whom  she  loved  to  think  on  was  so  nigh. 

Julio  stood  long  and  gazed  on  her  ;  a  sigh 

Burst  from  her  heaving  bosom,  and  that  eye, 

Whose  varying  glance  seemed  meant  but  to  express 

The  joy  of  love,  the  pride  of  loveliness, 

Was  clouded  by  sad  tears  ;  a  moment  more, 

And  Julio  with  bright  cheek  was  bending  o'er 

The  trembling  girl  —  but  why  should  I  repeat 

Love's  follies  ?  —  words  as  gentle  and  as  sweet 

As  the  soft  welling  of  the  distant  waves 

Of  ocean  o'er  his  deep  and  hollow  caves  ; 

Or  summer  breeze  that  sweeps  the  trembling  strings 

Of  the  ^Eolian  harp  —  sweet  as  when  sings 

Some  rose-lipped  cherub  in  the  starry  sky. 

And  O  !  how  quickly  can  Love's  thrilling  sigh 

Win  all  it  seeks :  when  Julio  vowed  he  ne'er 

Would  brook  the  lonely  weight  of  life,  a  tear 

Stood  in  her  eye  ;  he  felt  she  was  his  own, 

For  she  had  paused  to  hear  him,  and  the  tone 

Of  her  low  voice  grew  fainter  —  they  are  gone. 

That  hour  of  deep,  impassioned  feeling  past, 
They  sat  within  the  hall  ;  the  moonbeam  cast 
A  dim,  sweet  light  through  the  thick  orange-trees 
That  filled  the  casement,  and  the  evening  breeze 
Was  faint  with  their  rich  perfume.     With  a  smile 


GUIDO.  13 

That  once  could  Guide's  every  grief  beguile, 
Floranthe  bade  him  wake,  in  cheerful  song, 
Strains  that  to  love  and  happiness  belong  :  — 

'Tis  all  in  vain  —  I  cannot  sing 

The  joys  that  happy  Love  may  bring ; 

I  cannot  win  mirth's  blooming  wreath 

Its  fragrance  o'er  my  lyre  to  breathe. 

They  say  that  in  bright  summer  bowers, 

All  redolent  of  buds  and  flowers, 

Young  Love  is  dwelling ;  o'er  his  head 

The  calmest,  bluest  skies  are  spread, 

And  flowerets  spring  beneath  his  feet, 

As  though  to  die  by  him  were  sweet ; 

That  some,  with  rapturous  feeling,  gaze 

Upon  his  brow's  unclouded  blaze, 

While  others  prize  the  gentler  grace 

That  glows  around  his  half-veiled  face, 

And  all  are  happy — is  it  so? 

Does  Love  ne'er  see  a  shade  of  woe  ? 

Ask  not  the  smiling  lip  to  tell 

The  joys  in  Love's  sweet  home  that  dwell  — 

Go  ask  the  cheek  where  paleness  sits 

If  no  cloud  o'er  that  blue  sky  flits ; 

If  o'er  those  bowers  so  green  and  bright 

Griefs  chilling  breath  ne'er  throws  a  blight ; 

If  hope's  young  buds  ne'er  fade  away 

Beneath  the  touch  of  slow  decay. 

But  pride  may  dye  the  faded  cheek 

With  hues  that  seem  of  joy  to  speak  ; 

And  bright  the  eye  may  still  appear, 

Though  all  its  lustre  be  a  tear. 


14  POEMS. 

Then  wonder  not  that  my  sad  lyre 

Breathes  not  of  fancy's  thrilling  fire  : 

The  man  who  ne'er  beheld  the  sun 

Save  when  dark  mists  its  face  had  shrouded, 

Could  never  paint  flowers  shone  upon 

By  summer  skies  and  light  unclouded. 

Thus  I  must  shun  each  brighter  theme, 

And  still  of  wasted  feeling  dream  ; 

Still  tales  of  blighted  love  impart, 

Because  —  I  read  them  in  my  heart. 

Floranthe  little  knew  the  thoughts  that  stirred 
In  Guido's  breast ;  she  knew  not  he  had  heard 
Their  plighted  vows,  her  tender  tones,  when  she 
Confessed  the  love  long  cherished  hopelessly. 
Aye,  Guido  felt  her  falsehood  had  been  bliss 
To  the  wild  thought  she  never  had  been  his  ! 
Is  it  not  ever  thus  ?     O,  who  could  brook 
The  knowledge  that  each  gentle  word,  each  look 
Which  hope  had  fancied  filled  with  tenderness, 
Was  only  meant  cold  pity  to  express  ? 
O,  surely  it  is  far  less  grief  to  see 
Upon  the  altered  brow  inconstancy, 
Than  still  to  view  the  loved  eye's  chilling  beam, 
Like  sun  rays  glittering  o'er  a  frozen  stream. 
Guido  had  seen  his  dearest  hopes  depart, 
And  now  one  high  resolve  filled  his  lone  heart  ; 
He  knew  her  sire  would  ne'er  bestow  her  hand 
On  one  whose  wealth  was  but  his  battle-brand  • 
Inly  he  vowed  that  not  by  him  should  she 
Be  doomed  to  long  and  hopeless  misery  : 


GUIDO.  15 

The  star  of  life  had  set  —  why  should  he  care 

For  honors  that  Floranthe  could  not  share  ? 

On  the  next  morning  Julio  sought  to  bear 

His  joyful  tale  to  his  loved  Guide's  ear, 

But  vainly  did  he  seek  —  the  orange  bovver, 

The  lonely  grotto,  and  the  ruined  tower, 

All  his  loved  haunts,  were  silent  now  and  lone  ; 

His  harp-strings,  too,  were  broken,  as  if  none 

Might  wake  its  gentle  voice  now  he  was  gone. 

They  sought  the  chamber  of  his  nightly  rest  — 

It  was  untenanted,  his  couch  unprest ; 

But  on  his  ivory  tablets  he   had  traced 

Words  that  a  burning  tear  had  half  effaced  : 

"  He  loathed  the  false,  deceptive  world,  and  now 

A  cowl  must  hide  his  early  furrowed  brow  ; 

And  to  the  brother  of  his  heart  he  gave 

A  name  proud  as  Ambition's  self  could  crave, 

While  for  himself  he  sought  an  early  grave." 

O  !  there  is  never  need  of  words  to  tell 
To  woman's  heart  that  she  is  loved  too  well : 
The  glance,  the  sigh,  in  ill-dissembled  hour, 
Quickly  betray  the  fullness  of  her  power. 
Haply  Floranthe  would  not  then  unfold 
Her  every  thought,  while  memory  unrolled 
Its  darkened  record,  and  her  heart  hung  o'er 
Each  gentle  look  and  tone  unmarked  before  ; 
And  haply,  too,  in  after  years,  when  prest 
To  her  adoring  husband's  manly  breast, 
Floranthe  felt  she  had  not  been  thus  blest  • 
But  for  the  self-devoted  love  which  gave 
Itself  to  be  stern  sorrow's  veriest  slave. 


SKETCHES  FROM  HISTORY. 


JANE    OF    FRANCE. 

"Jeanne  de  France  etoit  fille  de  Louis  XI.  et  soeur  de  Charles  VIII.  On  la  ma- 
ria  4  1'iige  de  vingt  deux  ans  avec  Louis  XII.,  1'an  1476.  Elle  en  usa  bien  avec  lui 
pendant  qu'il  6toit  disgracie ;  et  Ce  fut  elle  qui,  par  ses  prieres,  le  fit  sortir  de  prison, 
1'an  1491  ;  mais  cela  ne  fut  point  capable  de  balancer  dans  le  coeur  de  son  mari  1'in- 
clination  violente  qu'il  avoit  pour  la  veuve  de  Charles  VIII.  C'e'toit  Anne  de  Bre- 
tagne ;  il  1'avoit  aim6e,  et  en  avoit  ete  aime  avant  qu'elle  epousat  Charles.  Ann 
done  de  contenter  son  envie,  ilfit  rompre  son  mariage,  et  il  promit  tant  de  recom 
pense  au  Pape  Alexandre  VI.  qu'il  en  obtint  tout  ce  qu'il  voulut." 

BAYLE,  Dictionnaire. 

>ALE,  cold,  and   statue-like  she  sat,  and   her  im 
peded  breath 
Came    gaspingly,    as   if    her    heart   was   in    the 

grasp  of  death, 
While  listening  to  the  harsh  decree  that  robbed  her  of 

a  throne, 

And  left  the  gentle  child  of  kings  in  the  wide  world 
alone. 

And  fearful  was  her  look  ;  in  vain  her  trembling  maid 
ens  moved, 

With  all  affection's  tender  care,  round  her  whom  well 
they  loved  ; 


JANE   OF  FRANCE.  17 

Stirless  she  sat,  as  if  enchained  by  some  resistless 
spell, 

Till  with  one  wild,  heart-piercing  shriek  in  their  em 
brace  she  fell. 

How  bitter  was  the  hour  she  woke  from  that  long  dream 
less  trance  ; 

The  veriest  wretch  might  pity  then  the  envied  Jane  of 
France ; 

But  soon  her  o'erfraught  heart  gave  way,  tears  came  to 
her  relief, 

And  thus  in  low  and  plaintive  tones,  she  breathed  her 
hopeless  grief:  — 

"  O  !  ever  have  I  dreaded  this,  since  at  the  holy  shrine 
My  trembling  hand  first  felt  the  cold,  reluctant  clasp  of 

thine ; 
And  yet  I  hoped  —     My  own  beloved,  how  may  I  teach 

my  heart 
To  gaze  upon  thy  gentle  face,  and  know  that  we  must 

part? 

"  Too  well  I  knew  thou  lovedst  me  not,  but  ah !  I 
fondly  thought 

That  years  of  such  deep  love  as  mine  some  change  ere 
this  had  wrought : 

I  dreamed  the  hour  might  yet  arrive  when,  sick  of  pas 
sion's  strife, 

Thy  heart  would  turn  with  quiet  joy  to  thy  neglected 
wife. 


1 8  FOE  MS. 

"  Vain,  foolish  hope  !  how  could  I  look  upon  thy  glori 
ous  form, 

And  think  that  e'er  the  time  might  come  when  thou 
wouldst  cease  to  charm  ? 

For  ne'er  till  then  wilt  thou  be  freed  from  beauty's 
magic  art, 

Or  cease  to  prize  a  sunny  smile  beyond  a  faithful  heart.   . 

"  In  vain  from  memory's  darkened  scroll  would  other 
thoughts  erase 

The  loathing  that  was  in  thine  eye,  whene'er  it  met  my 
face  : 

O  !  I  would  give  the  fairest  realm  beneath  the  all-see 
ing  sun, 

To  win  but  such  a  form  as  thou  mightst  love  to  look 
upon. 

"Woe,   woe   for   woman's   weary  lot  if   beauty  be   not 

hers  ; 

Vainly  within  her  gentle  breast  affection  wildly  stirs  ; 
And   bitterly   will   she   deplore,    amid    her   sick   heart's 

dearth, 
The  hour  that  fixed   her   fearful   doom  —  a   helot   from 

her  birth. 

"  I  would   thou  hadst  been  cold  and   stern  —  the  pride 

of  my  high  race 
Had  taught  me  then  from  my  young  heart  thine  image 

to  efface ; 
But   surely  even   love's   sweet  tones   could    ne'er   have 

power  to  bless 
My  bosom  with  such  joy  as  did  thy  pitying  tenderness. 


JAXE   OF  FRANCE,  19 

"  Alas  !  it  is  a  heavy  task  to  curb  the  haughty  soul, 

And  bid  th'  unbending  spirit  bow  that  never  knew  con 
trol  ; 

But  harder  still  when  thus  the  heart  against  itself  must 
rise 

And  struggle  on,  while  every  hope  that  nerved  the  war 
fare  dies. 

"  Yet  all  this  have  I  borne  for  thee  —  aye,  for  thy  sake 

I  learned 
The   gentleness   of  thought   and   word  which   once    my 

proud  heart  spurned  ; 
The  treasures   of    an   untouched   heart,    the   wealth   of 

love's  rich  mine,  — 
These  are  the  offerings  that  I  laid  upon  my  idol's  shrine. 

"  In  vain  I  breathed  my  vows  to  heaven,  'twas  mock 
ery  of  prayer ; 

In  vain  I  knelt  before  the  cross,  I  saw  but  Louis  there  : 

To  him  I  gave  the  worship  that  I  should  have  paid  my 
God,  — 

But  O  !  should  his  have  been  the  hand  to  wield  the 
avenging  rod  ?  " 


POEMS. 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  LOVER. 

Anne  Boleyn,  when  maid  of  honor  to  Queen  Catharine,  was  betrothed  to  Henry 
Percy,  afterwards  Earl  of  Northumberland,  but  at  that  time  a  page  in  the  household 
of  Cardinal  Wolsey.  The  king,  discovering  their  attachment  by  means  of  some  gem, 
a  love-gift  from  Percy  to  Anne,  ordered  him  to  be  removed  from  court.  The  young 
lover,  after  beholding  the  object  of  his  affection  elevated  to  the  highest  station  in  the 
realm,  was  finally  compelled,  as  one  of  the  peers  of  England,  to  preside  at  her  trial 
and  condemnation.  —  Miss  BENGER'S  Memoirs  of  Anne  Boleyn, 

SCENE  I. 

'ITHIN   a  green   and   flower-decked  glade  they 

stood  ; 

The  harvest  moon  was  shedding  a  rich  flood 
Of  light  around  them,  and  revealed  to  view 
The  youth's  bright  glance,  the  deep  and  burning  hue 
That  flushed  the  maiden's  cheek  ;  her  lover's  arm 
Was  fondly  clasped  around  her  graceful  form  : 
But  half  aside  she  turned  ;  she  could  not  brook 
The  passionate  fondness  of  his  earnest  look ; 
And  proudly  did  his  o'er-fraught  bosom  swell 
As  there,  to  hide  her  blushing  face,  she  fell. 
Upon  her  brow  he  pressed  one  burning  kiss. 
And  then  in  all  the  speechlessness  of  bliss 
Stood  gazing  on  her,  till  low  murmurs  broke 
From  her  sweet  lips,  and  his  heart's  pulses  woke  : 
"  Now  am  I  thine,  beloved  one  ;  doubt  me  not 
Amid  the  splendors  of  my  courtly  lot ; 
For  dearer  far  to  me  this  little  gem 
Than  e'er  could  be  a  queenly  diadem; 
And  when  no  more  my  bosom  it  shall  grace,  — 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  this  fond  embrace,  — 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE   OF  A   LOVER.  21 

Then  deem  me  faithless,  Henry,  and  despise 

The  heart  that  only  lives  beneath  thine  eyes." 

Then  to  her  rosy  lips  the  maiden  prest 

The  gem  with  which  his  hand  had  decked  her  breast : 

"  Now  fare  thee  well,  beloved  one,  I  must  go 

Once  more  to  mingle  in   the  heartless  show 

That  fills  yon  haughty  castle  —  one  last  kiss  — 

And  shoulclst  thou  doubt  me,  Henry,  think  on  this." 

She  glided  from  his  arms  ;  her  flying  feet 

Scarce  from  the  violet  pressed  its  fragrance  sweet  ; 

He  was  alone,  and  thus  to  music's  spell 

He  joined  the  murmurs  of  his  low  farewell :  — 

Farewell  to  thee,  dear ; 

When  I  meet  thee  again, 
Light  hearts  will  be  round  us 

And  pageantries  vain ; 
But  well  do  I  know, 

In  life's  sunniest  hours, 
Thou'lt  think  of  our  meeting 

'Mid  moonlight  and  flowers. 

Farewell  to  thee,  dear  one, 

And  O  !  in  thy  dreams 
When  fancy  sheds  o'er  thee 

Her  loveliest  beams, 
Then  think  that  thou  revest 

Through  Percy's  fair  bowers, 
And  remember  our  meeting 

'Mid  moonlight  and  flowers. 


22  POEMS. 

SCENE  II. 

HARK  !  hark  to  the  tumult !  the  trumpets  and  drums 
Are  waking  wild  mirth  as  the  pageantry  comes  ; 
'Mid  knights  and  fair  dames,  see  the  king  proudly  ride, 
While  near  him  is  borne  in  her  glory  his  bride  ; 
And  never  could  England's  proud  diadem  gleam 
On  a  brow  where  more  beauty  and  majesty  beam. 

There's  a  flush  on  her  cheek  like  the  deep  crimson  glow 
That  sunset  sheds  over  the  pure  Alpine  snow ; 
And  her  eye  sheds  a  brightness  more  glorious  by  far 
Than  the  splendor  that  beams   from    heaven's   loveliest 

star ; 

There  is  joy  in  her  heart,  but  does  happiness  speak 
In  the  wildly  bright  eye,  and  the  fever-flushed  cheek  ? 

'Tis  she  —  'tis  the  maiden  !  but  where  now  is  gone 
The  gem  that  so  long  on  her  bosom  had  shone  ? 
Though  diamonds  are  sparkling,  and  pearls  rich  and  rare, 
Yet  the  earliest  offering  of  love  is  not  there  ; 
And  the  king  at  her  side  is  not  he  on  whose  breast, 
In  that  still  hour  of  bliss,  her  sweet  face  had  found  rest. 

Look,  look  to  the  queen  !  o'er  her  features  are  spread 
A  hue  like  the  paleness  that  dwells  with  the  dead  ; 
Her  wandering  glance,  as  if  urged  by  a  spell, 
Turned  full  on  the  form  she  had  loved  but  too  well  ; 
And  how  did  her  heart  with  wild  agony  beat, 
As  she  thought  of  those  hours  still  in  memory  too  sweet ! 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE   OF  A   LOVER.  23 

O  !  sadly  he  looked  on  her  robes  rich  and  gay,  — 
He  had  seen  that  form  fairer  in  simple  array, — 
And  shuddering  he  gazed  on  her  jeweled  tiar 
Less  bright  than  her  eye,  once  his  loveliest  star  : 
And  his  proud  heart  swelled  high  as  he  thought  of  past 

hours, 
And   remembered   their    meeting   'mid    moonlight    and 

flowers. 

But  vain  such  remembrance  ;  a  tyrant's  fierce  love 

Had  broken  the  bonds  young  affection  had  wove. 

The  youth  to  another  in  sorrow  is  wed  ; 

In  glory  the  maid  as  a  queen  is  now  led ; 

And  soon  as  a  subject  he  humbly  must  bow 

To  her  on  whose  lips  he  had  breathed  his  love-vow. 

SCENE  III. 

WITH  black  the  stately  hall  was  hung ;  a  cloud  was  on 
each  brow 

That  gathered  round  the  council  board  in  solemn  si 
lence  now  j 

And  pain  and  anxious  doubt  within  each  noble's  bosom 
stirred, 

For  well  they  knew  that  life  and  death  now  hung  upon 
their  word. 

With  snow-white  robes  and  veiled  brow,  a  female  form 

drew  nigh  ; 
With  calm  and  stately  air  she  stepped,  while  fixed  was 

every  eye  ; 


24  POEMS. 

And  'mid   the   dark,  stern  visaged   guards   around   her, 

she  might  seem 
The  being  of  a  higher  sphere,  the  creature  of  a  dream. 

Now  like  a  criminal  she  stood,  while  plainly  she  could 

trace 

The  fearful  workings  of  his  soul  upon  each  noble's  face ; 
Yet  was   she  calm  ;   with  queenly  grace   her  veil   aside 

was  thrown  — 
Unhappy   Percy !    from   thy  lips   burst   that   convulsive 

groan  ? 

Well  might  his  breast  with  anguish  thrill !  few  years 
had  passed  away 

Since  that  fair  form  within  his  arms  in  love's  deep 
fondness  lay ; 

Since  then  she  moved  the  stately  queen  —  now  the  dis 
loyal  wife, 

For  her  deep  treachery  and  wrong  must  answer  with 
her  life. 

Yet  she  was  innocent ;  O  !  none  could  gaze  upon  her  eye 
And   deem   that   sin's   dark   stain   within    her    bosom's 

depths  could  lie; 
But.  who   might   dare    assert    her    truth,  when,  wearied 

with  her  charms, 
The  tyrant  had  decreed  that  she  should  sleep  in  death's 

cold  arms  ? 

Now,  placed  'mid  England's  haughty  peers,  must  Percy 

seal  the  doom 
That  gave  the  creature  of  his  love  to  fill  a  bloody  tomb  > 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE   OF  A  LOVER.  25 

Too  soon  the  fatal  deed  was  done  —  though  pure  as  un 
sunned  snow, 

Yet  must  the  fearful  hand  of  death  stamp  guilt  upon 
her  brow. 

He  heard  no  more ;  but  wildly  from  the  judgment  hall 

he  rushed, 
Too  strong   the   tenderness  within   his  anguished   spirit 

gushed  ; 
Till  worn  by  such  resistless  pangs,  o'ermastered  by  the 

spell 
Of  demon  thought,  upon  the  earth  in  senselessness    he 

fell. 

Stately  and  calm  the  queen  had  sat,  but  when  she  heard 
his  cry, 

From  her  quick  heaving  bosom  burst  the  half-convul 
sive  sigh. 

One  pleading  look  to  heaven  she  cast,  then  spoke  in 
murmured  tone  : 

"  Slight  is  the  bitterness  of  death  when  spotless  fame 
is  gone." 

Thus  did  she  die  —  the  young,  the  fair,  the  good,  com 
pelled  to  bow 

Her  graceful,  swan-like  neck  beneath  the  headsman's 
heavy  blow  ; 

Her  shining  locks  were  dabbled  in  the  blood  that 
flowed  like  rain  ; 

But  o'er  the  whiteness  of  her  soul,  e'en  blood  could 
leave  no  stain. 


26  POEMS. 


QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 

"  Sir  James  Melvil  tells  us  that  this  princess,  the  evening  of  his  arrival  in  London, 
had  given  a  ball  to  her  court  at  Greenwich,  and  was  displaying  all  that  spirit  and  alac 
rity  which  usually  attended  her  on  these  occasions :  but  when  news  arrived  of  the 
prince  of  Scotland's  birth,  all  her  joy  was  damped  ;  she  sunk  into  melancholy ;  she 
reclined  her  head  upon  her  arm,  and  complained  to  some  of  her  attendants,  that  the 
Queen  of  Scots  was  mother  of  a  fair  son,  while  she  herself  was  but  a  barren  stock."  l 

HUME'S  History  of  England. 

§OLDLY  she  sat,  while  graceful  hands  her  stately 

form  arrayed 
In  silken  robes,  and  wreathed  her  hair  in  many 

a  jeweled  braid  ; 

But  all  a  woman's  vanity  was  in  the  vivid  glow 
That  flattery's  magic  tones  awoke  upon  her  cheek  and 
brow. 

Beside  her  hung  the  pictured  form  of  Scotland's  match 
less  queen  — 

O  !  language  would  need  rainbow  hues  to  paint  that 
glorious  mien, 

That  face  which  bore  the  high  impress  of  majesty,  and 
yet 

Where  Love,  as  if  to  win  all  hearts,  his  fairest  seal 
had  set. 

And  bitter  was  the  scorn  that  filled    Elizabeth's   proud 

eye, 
As  turning   from   her   mirrored   self,  she   saw  her   rival 

nigh  • 

1  A  slight,  perhaps  not  unpardonable  liberty  has  been  taken  with  historical  fact. 
The  queen  is  supposed  to  be  at  her  toilette,  preparing  for  the  ball. 


QUEEN  ELIZABETH.  27 

But   transient  was   the   cloud,  and   soon   she   bent  with 

smiles  to  greet 
The  graceful    little   page  who  now  was  kneeling  at  her 

feet :  — 

"  Letters    from    Scotland  "  —  eagerly   she    grasped    the 

proffered  scroll 
Which  sharper  than  a  scorpion's  sting  could  pierce  her 

haughty  soul  ; 
And   timidly  her   maidens    shrunk ;    for   quickly   could 

they  trace 
Fierce  passion  in  the  darkening  hue  that  gathered  o'er 

her  face. 

The    white   foam  stood    upon   her   lip,  and  wildly  beat 

her  heart, 
Till  its  convulsive   throbbings    rent  her  'broidered  zone 

apart : 
"  Away  !  "   she    cried  —  awe-struck    they  stood    to    hear 

that  anguished  tone,  — 
"Away!"  —  like  frighted  fawns  they  fled,  and  she  was 

left  alone. 

O !    fiercer   than    the    angry  burst    of  ocean's    tameless 

wave 
Is  woman's    soul,  when   thus    unchecked  its  maddening 

passions  rave  ; 
But  soon  the  storm  was  spent,  and  then  like  rain-drops 

fell  her  tears, 
While    thus    the    heart-struck    queen    bewailed  her  lone 

and  blighted  years  :  — 


28  POEMS. 

"  All,  all  but  this  I  could  have  borne  —  methought  that 

queenly  pride 
Had    checked    within    my    woman's    breast    affection's 

swelling  tide  ; 

But  vainly  has  my  spirit  sought  'mid  glory  to  forget 
The  youthful  dreams  whose  faded  light  gleams  o'er  my 

fancy  yet. 

"  And  she  has  realized  those    dreams  —  aye,  she  whose 

gentle  brow, 

In  all  its  graceful  loveliness,  is  turned  upon  me  now  ; 
Mary  of  Scotland  !   gladly  would  my  lofty  heart  resign 
The  pomps  and  vanities  of  power,  to  win    such  joy  as 

thine. 

"  O  !  dearer  far  than  halls  of  state  the  humble  cottage 
hearth, 

Where  childhood's  joyous  tones  awake  in  all  their  reck 
less  mirth  ; 

And  happier  far  the  meanest  churl,  than  she,  within 
whose  breast 

Affection's  soft  and  pleading  voice  by  pride  must  be 
represt. 

"  A  mother's  joy  !  a  mother's  pride  !  —  O  !  what  is  regal 
power 

To  the  sweet  feelings  that  are  born  in  such  a  blissful 
hour? 

Now  well  art  thou  avenged,  fair  queen,  of  all  my  jeal 
ous  hate, 

For  thou  hast  clasped  a  princely  son,  and  I  —  am  des 
olate  !  " 


THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  ELIZABETH.  29 

THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 
A    BALLAD. 

OULD  this  be  England's   boasted  pride  ? 

Where  were  her  glories  now  ? 
Where  the  rich  jewels  that  were  wont 
To  deck  her  princely  brow  ? 
Where  were  the  pomps  of  regal  state, 

The  charms  of  lady's  bower  ? 
Not  on  such  couch  the  island  queen 
Should  meet  her  dying  hour. 

In  vain  her  anxious  maidens  decked 

Her  bed  of  royal  state  ; 
With  finger  pressed  upon  her  lip, 

Upon  the  floor  she  sate ; 
Sorrow  had  bowed  her  stately  form, 

And  time  had  blanched  her  hair; 
While  her  proud  eye,  now  glazed  and  dim, 

Was  filled  with  wild  despair. 

She  took  no  heed  of  aught;   her  thoughts 

Were  in  the  bloody  grave 
That  her  own  hand  had  dug  for  him 

She  would  have  died  to  save  ; 
And  ever  to  her  heart  she  pressed 

A  ring,  a  trifling  gem, 
But  far  more  precious  to  her  now 

Than  England's  diadem. 


30  POEMS. 

It  was  a  pledge  of  special  grace  — 

For  hours  had  often  been 
When  the  proud  dame  could  not  forget 

The  woman  in  the  queen ; 
And  to  the  hand  of  Essex  then, 

In  such  an  hour  she  gave 
The  ring,  and  promised  any  boon 

That  with  it  he  might  crave. 

And  when  they  called  him  rebel  chief, 

And  told  her  he  must  die, 
How  long,  how  fondly  did  she  wait 

To  see  that  pledge  brought  nigh; 
But  time  passed  on,  and  it  came  not: 

Then,  forced  by  harsh  decree, 
Her  hand  confirmed  his  doom,  and  sealed 

Her  own  deep  misery. 

Now  when  'twas  all  too  late,  she  learned 

How  treachery  and  wrong 
Around  the  noble  earl  had  wove 

Their  toils  so  deep  and  strong ; 
For  he  had  sent  the  fatal  ring, 

But  ere  it  met  her  eye, 
The  hapless  youth  had  sunk  beneath 

The  death  that  traitors  die. 

This  was  the  fearful  thought  that  weighed 

Upon  her  noble  heart, 
And  never  more  could  earthly  pomps 

A  ray  of  joy  impart ; 


THE   DEATH  OF  QUEEN  ELIZABETH.  31 

The  crown  her  hand  had  decked  with  gems 

Oppressed  her  weary  head, 
And  what  cared  she  for  princely  power  ? 

It  could  not  wake  the  dead. 

Thus  days  passed  on,  while  fixed  she  sat 

A  statue  of  despair, 
Unheeding  aught  save  when  arose 

The  murmured  voice  of  prayer ; 
Then  slowly  down  her  wasted  cheek 

The  gathering  tear-drops  stole, 
But  O  !  what  human  voice  may  speak 

The  anguish  of  her  soul  ? 

Are  there  who  smile  that  thus  in  age 

Affection  should  awake 
And  scorn  to  think  a  heart  so  late 

In  hopelessness  may  break  ? 
Go  look  upon  the  mountain  stream  — 

Its  wild  wave  rushes  by, 
Till  wasted  by  its  own  excess 

Behold  the  channel  dry  ! 

Aye,  thus  she  suffered  —  she  who  scorned 

To  share  her  envied  throne  ; 
She  who  had  spurned  a  sceptered  hand, 

Proud  to  but  reign  alone  ; 
Now  sunk  beneath  the  fatal  strength 

Of  passion,  and  forgot 
The  glories  of  a  stately  queen, 

To  die  by  woman's  lot. 


32  POEMS. 


BOSCOBEL. 


"  By  the  Earl  of  Derby's  directions,  Charles  went  to  Boscobel,  a  lone  house,  on  the 
borders  of  Staffordshire,  inhabited  by  one  Penderell,  a  farmer.  To  this  man  Charles 
intrusted  himself.  Penderell  took  the  assistance  of  his  four  brothers,  equally  honor 
able  with  himself;  and  having  clothed  the  king  in  a  garb  likt  their  own,  they  led  him 
into  a  neighboring  wood,  put  a  bill  into  his  hand,  and  pretended  to  employ  them 
selves  in  cutting  fagots.  For  a  better  concealment,  he  mounted  upon  an  oak,  where 
he  sheltered  himself  among  the  leaves  and  branches  for  twenty-four  hours.  He  saw 
several  soldiers  pass  by.  All  of  them  were  intent  in  search  of  the  king  ;  and  some 
expressed  in  his  hearing,  their  earnest  wishes  of  seizing  him." 

HUME'S  History  of  England. 


WAS  sunset,  and  the  forest  trees 

Glowed  'neath  the  golden  sky, 
While     evening's    soft    and    dew-fraught 

breeze 
Awoke  its  gentle  sigh. 


Slowly  the  toil-worn  woodman  came  ; 

His  glance  was  high  and  proud  ; 
Though  'neath  the  fagots'  painful  weight 

His  drooping  form  was  bowed. 

At  length  in  weariness  he  cast 

His  burden  to  the  earth  ; 
And  never  such  a  look  could  beam 

From  one  of  lowly  birth. 

Xhe  peasant's  summer  toil  seemed  traced 

Upon  his  swarthy  cheek  ; 
But  not  more  native  pride  than  his 

A  kingly  eye  could  speak. 


BOSCOBEL.  33 

Aye,  majesty  upon  his  brow 

Its  signet  had  imprest ; 
And  lofty  was  the  heart  that  heaved 

Beneath  the  woodman's  vest ; 

For  he  was  one  of  royal  race, 

His  heritage  a  throne  : 
What  doth  he  in  the  pathless  wood, 

Thus  peasant-clad  and  lone  ? 

Beside  the  silver  brook  he  threw 

His  wearied  limbs,  and  sighed  : 
"  Alas  !  must  this  then  be  the  end 

Of  Stuart's  kingly  pride? 

"Woe  for  the  glorious  hopes  that  once 

My  lofty  heart  could  fill ! 
The  hand  that  grasped  the  warrior's  sword, 

Now  bears  the  woodman's  bill ; 

"  The  neck  that  never  bent  before, 

Now  bows  itself  to  wear 
A  burden  that,  in  better  days, 

My  slaves  had  scorned  to  bear. 

"  Better,  far  better  'twere  to  die 

Beneath  the  assassin's  knife, 
Than  thus  drag  on,  'mid  toil  and  care, 

A  painful  load  of  life." 
3 


34  POEMS. 

Hark  to  the  sound  of  crashing  boughs  ! 

A  stranger's  step  is  heard  ! 
Again  the  love  of  life  within 

The  prince's  bosom  stirred. 

With  lithe  and  active  limb  he  climbed 

An  oak's  majestic  height ; 
And,  sheltered  'mid  its  clustering  leaves, 

Looked  on  a  fearful  sight. 

A  band  of  fierce-eyed  men  were  there ; 

Their  swords  were  stained  with  blood  ; 
And  they  bent  to  lave  their  burning  brows 

Within  the  crystal  flood. 

Then  rose  the  ribald  jest,  the  laugh, 

The  tale  of  daily  guilt ; 
And,  demon-like,  the  exulting  boast 

Of  blood  their  hands  had  spilt. 

But  still  they  sought  one  victim  more  — 
The  Prince  !  the  Prince !  for  him 

With  frantic  haste  they  hurry  through 
The  forest-shadows  dim. 

He  heard  their  cries  of  baffled  rage  ; 

He  saw  their  eyes'  fierce  glare  ; 
He  knew  that  he  was  hunted  like 

A  wild  beast  in  his  lair. 


BOSCOBEL.  35 

Then  all  death's  bitterness  was  his  ; 

And  down  his  swart  cheek  rolled 
Big  drops  of  agony  that  well 

His  soul's  dread  conflict  told. 

Night  dews  upon  the  green  sward  shed 

Full  many  a  precious  gem, 
And  on  the  midnight  skies  was  seen 

Heaven's  glorious  diadem. 

Stillness  was  on  the  peaceful  earth, 

And  beauty  rilled  the  grove, 
While  nature  seemed  too  fair  for  aught 

Save  gentleness  and  love. 

A  hallowed  sound  that  stillness  broke  ;, 

For,  lowly  kneeling  there, 
To  pitying  heaven  the  rescued  prince 

Poured  his  unwonted  prayer. 

And  O  !  in  after  years,  when  placed. 
On  England's  glorious  throne, 

The  wealth  and  power  of  regal  state- 
Around  him  richly  shone  — 

When  pleasure  o'er  his  fancy  wove 

Her  bright  and  powerful  spell, 
Did  not  the  monarch's  proud  heart  bless 

The  shades  of  Boscobel  ? 


36  POEMS. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  COLUMBUS. 

"  Until  now  I  have  wept  for  others ;  have  pity  upon  me,  Heaven,  and  weep  for  me, 
earth  !  In  my  temporal  concerns,  without  a  farthing  to  give  in  offering  ;  in  spiritual 
concerns,  cast  away  here  in  the  Indies  ;  isolated  in  my  misery,  infirm,  expecting  each 
day  will  be  my  last ;  surrounded  by  cruel  savages,  separated  from  the  holy  sacra 
ments  of  the  Church,  so  that  my  soul  will  be  lost  if  separated  here  from  my  body  ! 
Weep  for  me  whoever  has  charity,  truth,  and  justice.  I  came  not  on  this  voyage  to 
gain  honor  or  estate  ;  for  all  hope  of  that  kind  is  dead  within  me.  I  came  to  serve 
your  majesties  with  a  sound  intention  and  an  honest  zeal,  and  I  speak  no  falsehood." 

Extract  of  a  Letter  from  Columbus. 

"  He  looked  upon  himself  as  standing  in  the  hand  of  Heaven,  chosen  from  among 
rnen  for  the  accomplishment  of  its  high  purpose.  He  read,  as  he  supposed,  his  con 
templated  discovery  foretold  in  holy  writ,  and  shadowed  forth  darkly  in  the  mystic 
revelations  of  the  prophets.  The  ends  of  the  earth  were  to  be  brought  together,  and 
all  nations  and  tongues  and  languages  united  under  the  banners  of  the  Redeemer." 

IRVING'S  Life  of  Columbus. 

"  There  is  a  fire 

And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being 


And  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core, 
Fatal  to  him  that  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore." 

Childe  Harold. 

3T  mine  the  dreams, 

The  vague  chimeras  of  an  earth-stained  soul, 
O'er  which  the  mists  of  error  darkly  roll ; 

For  Heaven-sent  beams 

Have  chased  the  gloom  that  round  my  soul  was  flung, 
And   pierced    the    clouds    that   o'er  creation's  mysteries 
hung. 

From  my  youth  up 
For  this  high  purpose  was  I  set  apart  — 


THE  LAMENT  OF  COLUMBUS.  37 

An  unbreathed  thought,  it  lived  within  my  heart ; 

And  though  life's  cup 

Was  filled  with  all  earth's  agonies,  I  quaffed 
Unmurmuring,  for  that  hope  could  sweeten  any  draught. 

There  were  who  jeered, 

And  laughed  to  scorn  my  visionary  scheme  ; 
They  thought  yon  glorious  sun's  resplendent  beam 

So  brightly  cheered 
And  vivified  alone  the  spot  of  earth 
Where    they,  like  worms,  had  lived  and  groveled  from 
their  birth. 

But,  called  by  God, 

From  home  and  friends  my  willing  steps  I  turned ; 
Led  by  the  light  that  in  my  spirit  burned, 

Strange  lands  I  trod  ; 

And  lo  !  new  worlds,  uncurtained  by  my  hand, 
Before  th'  admiring  East  in  pristine  beauty  stand. 

And  what  was  given 
To  recompense  the  many  nameless  toils 
That  won  my  king  a  new  found  empire's  spoils  ? 

The  smile  of  Heaven 

Blessed  him  who  sought  amid  those  Eden  plains 
To  plant  the  holy  cross  ;  but  man's  reward  was  chains. 

Forgot  by  all, 

Amid  a  land  of  savages,  I  wait 
From  cruel,  hostile  hands  my  coming  fate  ; 

Or  else  to  fall 


38  POEMS. 

Beneath  the  grief  that  weighs  upon  my  heart 
While  unaneled,  unblessed,  my  spirit  must  depart. 

How  have  I  wept 

In  pity  for  my  followers,  when  afar 
O'er  the  wide  sea  with  scarce  a  guiding  star 

Our  course  we  kept; 

But  night  winds  only  o'er  my  grave  shall  sigh ; 
For,  bowed  with  cruel  wrongs,  on  stranger  shores,  I  die. 

No  selfish  hope 

Of  fame  or  honor  led  me  here  again 
To  tread  this  weary  pilgrimage  of  pain  ; 

He  who  must  cope 

With  treachery  and  wrong,  until  the  flame 
Of  pure  ambition  dies,  has  nought  to  do  with  fame. 

To  serve  my  king 

I  came,  with  zeal  unkindness  could  not  chill ; 
To  glorify  my  God,  whose  holy  will 

Taught  me  to  fling 

The  veil  of  error  from  before  my  eyes, 
And  teach    mankind  his    power  as  shown  'neath    other 
skies. 

Weep  for  me,  earth  ! 

Thou  whose  bright  wonders  I  have  oft  explored, 
Weep  for  me  heaven  !  to  whose  proud  heights  has  soared, 

E'en  from  its  birth, 

My  strong  vtinged  spirit  in  its  might  alone; 
Lo !    he  who    gave    new  worlds    now   dies    unwept,  un 
known. 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  CAMOENS.  39 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  CAMOENS. 

"  On  his  return  from  banishment,  Camoens  was  shipwrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the 
river  Gambia.  He  saved  himself  by  clinging  to  a  plank,  and  of  all  his  little  property 
succeeded  only  in  saving  his  poem  of  the  Lusiad,  deluged  with  the  waves  as  he  brought 
it  in  his  hand  to  shore."  J  —  SISMONDI. 

"  I  saw  him  beat  the  surges  under  him, 
And  ride  upon  their  backs  ;  he  trod  the  water, 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 
The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him." 

Tempest. 

CLOUDS  gathered  o'er  the  dark  blue  sky, 

The  sun  waxed  dim  and  pale, 
And  the  music  of  the  waves  was  changed 
To  the  plaintive  voice  of  wail ; 
And  fearfully  the  lightning  flashed 

Around  the  ship's  tall  mast, 
While  mournfully  through  the  creaking  shrouds 
Came  the  sighing  of  the  blast. 

With  pallid  cheek  the  seamen  shrank 

Before  the  deepening  gloom  ; 
For  they  gazed  on  the  black  and  boiling  sea 

As  'twere  a  yawning  tomb  : 
But  on  the  vessel's  deck  stood  one 

With  proud  and  changeless  brow  ; 
Nor  pain  nor  terror  was  in  the  look 

He  turned  to  the  gulf  below. 

He  is  described  with  his  sword  in  his  hand,  upon  the  authority  of  his  own  words  :  — 
"  N'huma  mao  livros,  n'outra,  ferro  et  aco, 
N'huma  mao  sempre  a  espada,  n'outra  a  pena." 


40  POEMS. 

And  calmly  to  his  arm  he  bound 

His  casket  and  his  sword  ; 
Unheeding,  though  with  fiercer  strength 

The  threatening  tempest  roared  ; 
Then  stretched  his  sinewy  arms  and  cried  : 

"  For  me  there  yet  is  hope ; 
The  limbs  that  have  spurned  a  tyrant's  chain 

With  the  stormy  wave  may  cope. 

"  Now  let  the  strife  of  nature  fage, 

Proudly  I  yet  can  claim, 
Where'er  the  waters  may  bear  me  on, 

My  freedom  and  my  fame." 
The  dreaded  moment  came  too  soon, 

The  sea  swept  madly  on, 
Till  the  wall  of  waters  closed  around, 

And  the  noble  ship  was  gone. 

Then  rose  one  wild,  half-stifled  cry ; 

The  swimmer's  bubbling  breath 
Was  all  unheard,  while  the  raging  tide 

Wrought  well  the  task  of  death : 
But  'mid  the  billows  still  was  seen 

The  stranger's  struggling  form  ; 
And  the  meteor  flash  of  his  sword  might  seem 

Like  a  beacon  ?mid  the  storm. 

For  still,  while  with  his  strong  right  arm 

He  buffeted  the  wave, 
The  other  upheld  that  treasured  prize 

He  would  give  life  to  save. 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  CAMOEXS.  41 

Was  then  the  love  of  pelf  so  strong 

That  e'en  in  death's  dark  hour, 
The  base-born  passion  could  awake 

With  such  resistless  power? 

No  !  all  earth's  gold  were  dross  to  him, 

Compared  with  what  lay  hid, 
Through  lonely  years  of  changeless  woe, 

Beneath  that  casket's  lid  ; 
For  there  was  all  the  mind's  rich  wealth, 

And  many  a  precious  gem 
That,  in  after  years,  he  hoped  might  form 

A  poet's  diadem. 

Nobly  he  struggled  till  o'erspent, 

His  nerveless  limbs  no  more 
Could  bear  him  on  through  the  waves  that  rose 

Like  barriers  to  the  shore  ; 
Yet  still  he  held  his  long  prized  wealth, 

He  saw  the  wished  for  land  — 
A  moment  more,  and  he  was  thrown 

Upon  the  rocky  strand. 

Alas  !  far  better  to  have  died 

Where  the  mighty  billows  roll, 
Than  lived  till  coldness  and  neglect 

Bowed  down  his  haughty  soul : 
Such  was  his  dreary  lot,  at  once 

His  country's  pride  and  shame  ; 
For  on  Camoens'  humble  grave  alone 

Was  placed  his  wreath  of  fame. 


42  POEMS. 


LAMENT  OF  CAMOENS. 

Donna  Catharina  de  Atayde,  a  lady  of  rank  and  fortune,  inspired  Camoens  with  a 
love  as  deep  as  it  proved  lasting.  He  was  her  equal  in  birth,  though  destitute  of  riches. 
His  poverty,  however,  in  the  opinion  of  her  parents,  was  a  crime  which  could  be  ex 
piated  only  by  exile  ;  and  as  she  was  attached  to  the  court,  they  found  no  difficulty 
in  procuring  from  the  sovereign  a  decree  for  his  banishment.  This  summary  mode  of 
proceeding,  though  it  separated  the  lovers,  served  but  to  increase  their  mutual  affec 
tion,  while  it  brought  upon  the  unhappy  Camoens  misfortune  and  disgrace.  After 
a  lapse  of  years,  during  which  he  had  suffered  penury,  shipwreck,  and  the  loss  of 
the  little  property  he  had  accumulated  in  the  East  Indies,  he  returned  to  his  native 
country,  broken  in  health  and  in  spirits,  only  to  weep  over  the  grave  of  his  beloved 
Catharina,  who  had  cherished  her  hopeless  love  for  him  to  the  last  moments  of  her 
life. —  Life  of  Camoens. 

"  O  when  in  boyhood's  happier  scene, 

I  pledged  my  love  to  thee, 
How  very  little  did  I  ween 
My  recompense  would  now  have  been 
So  much  of  misery  !  " 

CAMOENS. 

(Y  brow  is  wasted  with  its  throbs  of  pain  ; 

My  limbs  have  worn  the  exile's  heavy  chain  ; 

And  now,  in  weariness  of  heart,  I  come 

To  seek  my  home  — 
Alas  !  alas  !  what  home  is  left  me  save 
The  marble  stone  that  marks  my  Catharine's  grave. 

Amid  the  loneliness  of  banished  years, 
When  every  hour  was  traced  in  bitter  tears, 
When  'gainst  itself  my  bosom  learned  to  war, 

Thou  wert  the  star 

That  o'er  my  path  of  dreary  darkness  shone, 
My  own  sweet  Catharine,  and  thou  too  art  gone  ! 

Too  well  thy  faith,  my  gentle  one,  was  kept ; 
The  love,  the  perfect  tenderness  that  slept 


LAMENT  OF  CAMOENS.  43 

Within  thy  bosom,  on  itself  has  preyed, 

Till  thou  wert  laid 

Within  the  shelter  of  earth's  quiet  breast, 
The  sinless  victim  of  a  love  unblest. 

Still  thou  didst  glory  in  that  love ;  thy  brow 
With  deep  affection's  brightest  flush  would  glow ; 
And  though  with  bitter  tears,  when  last  we  met, 

Thy  cheek  was  wet, 

Yet  thou  didst  bear  a  spirit  high  and  proud, 
And  bid  me  suffer  on  with  soul  unbowed. 

Alas !  I  hoped  thou  wouldst  have  heard  my  name 
Linked  with  the  voice  of  song,  the  breath  of  fame  : 
I  fondly  deemed  that  thou  wouldst  yet  behold 

My  name  enrolled 

Amid  my  country's  records,  while  my  lyre 
Should  wake  within  all  hearts  a  patriot  fire. 

But  that  is  past ;  once  I  had  wept,  and  raved, 

And  cursed  the  fate  that,  through   such  perils,  saved 

Me  to  lament  o'er  early-faded  dreams  ; 

Now  reason  seems 

Gifted  with  life  to  add  new  stings  to  pain  ; 
For  frenzy  rules  my  heart,  but  not  my  brain. 

No  outward  sign  such  mortal  woe  may  speak ; 
No  tears,  my  Catharine,  stain  my  hollow  cheek  ; 
For  ah  !  this  languid  frame,  this  sinking  heart 

Tell  me  we  part 

But  for  a  season  ;  soon  my  toil-worn  soul 
Shall  throw  aside  this  weary  life's  control. 


44  POEMS. 

Then  shall  death  sanctify  my  lyre  ;  and  then 
Shall  nations  praise  "  him  of  the  sword  and  pen  ; " 
Then  shall  my  grave  become  a  pilgrim  shrine  ; 

And  then  too  thine, 

Thus  hallowed  by  a  poet's  love,  shall  be 
Sought  when  forgot  are  thy  proud  ancestry. 


THE  POOL  OF  BETHESDA. 

(ST.  JOHN  v.  2-9.) 

RANQUIL  Bethesda's  waters  lay, 
No  breeze  the  surface  stirred, 
When  sudden  through  the  brightening  air 
A  rustling  wing  was  heard  ; 
Then  loudly  rose  the  joyous  cry  : 
"  The  angel  of  the  pool  is  nigh  !  " 

Well  might  they  shout,  the  lame,  the  blind, 

The  fevered  who  had  lain 
Beside  Bethesda's  healing  wave, 

Through  many  a  day  of  pain  ; 
They  knew  it  was  the  destined   hour 
When  God  would  show  his  pitying  power. 

Then  with  the  selfishness  that  marks 

Deep  misery,  they  rushed 
Towards  the  holy  fount  that  now 

With  heaven-sent  freshness  gushed  ; 


THE  POOL   OF  BETPIESDA.  45 

For  he  who  first  should  reach  its  brink, 
New  being  from  its  wave  might  drink. 

But  there  was  one  who  stirless  lay 

Upon  his  weary  couch  ; 
Nor  sought  amid  the  hurrying  crowd 

The  troubled  waters'  touch ; 
But  in  his  bitter  sigh  was  heard 
The  agony  of  "hope  deferred." 

Almost  reproachfully  he  turned 

His  eye  upon  the  stream ; 
When  lo  !  a  gentle  voice  awoke, 

Like  music  in  a  dream, 
So  soft,  so  sweet  its  accents   stole,  — 
"  My  brother !  wilt  thou  not  be  whole  ?  " 

Slowly  he  turned  his  feeble  frame, 

And  gazed  upon  a  face 
Of  more  than  woman's  loveliness, 

Of  more  than  kingly  grace  ; 
"Alas!  in  vain  my  will,"  he  cried, 
"I  cannot  reach  Bethesda's  tide. 

"In  more  than  infant  feebleness, 
Through  long  and  changeless  years, 

I've  lain  beside  this  healing  pool 
And  yet  no  help  appears  ; 

For  ere  my  palsied  limbs  draw  nigh, 

The  hour  of  mercy  is  gone  by." 


46  POEMS. 

The  Saviour  bent  his  noble  form, 

A  heavenly  smile  passed  o'er 
His  placid  lip  :  "  Arise  !  "  he  cried, 

"  Go  hence  and  sin  no  more  !  " 
Lo !  touched  by  those  almighty  hands, 
Once  more  in  manhood's  strength  he  stands. 

Surely  this  deed  of  wondrous  power 

A  truth  to  us  imparts  : 
When  Heaven's  best  gifts  have  not  the  skill 

To  heal  our  broken  hearts, 
May  we  not  look  through  faith  to  thee 
Thou  first-born  of  eternity  ? 


CHRIST  IN  THE  TEMPEST. 

(ST.  MATTHEW  viii.  24-27.) 

:IDNIGHT  was  on  the  mighty  deep, 

And  darkness  filled  the  boundless  sky, 
While  'mid  the  raging  wind  was  heard 
The  sea-bird's  mournful  cry ; 
For  tempest  clouds  were  mustering  wrath 
Across  the  seaman's  trackless  path. 

It  came  at  length ;  one  fearful  gust 
Rent  from  the  mast  the  shivering  sail, 

And  drove  the  helpless  bark  along, 
The  plaything  of  the  gale  ; 

While  fearfully  the  lightning's  glare 

Fell  on  the  pale  brows  gathered  there. 


CHRIST  IN  THE    TEMPEST.  47 

But  there  was  One  o'er  whose  bright  face 
Unmarked  the  vivid  lightnings  flashed  ; 

And  on  whose  stirless,  prostrate  form 
Unfelt  the  sea-spray  dashed  ; 

For  'mid  the  tempest  fierce  and  wild, 

He  slumbered  like  a  wearied  child. 

O  !  who  could  look  upon  that  face, 

And  feel  the  sting  of  coward  fear  ? 
Though  hell's  fierce  demons  raged  around, 

Yet  Heaven  itself  was  here  ; 
For  who  that  glorious  brow  could  see 
Nor  own  a  present  Deity  ? 

With  hurried  fear  they  press  around 

The  lowly  Saviour's  humble  bed, 
As  if  his  very  touch  had  power 

To  shield  their  souls  from  dread  ; 
While,  cradled  on  the  raging  deep, 
He  lay  in  calm  and  tranquil  sleep. 

Vainly  they  struggled  with  their  fears, 

But  wilder  still  the  tempest  woke, 
Till  from  their  full  and  o'erfraught  hearts 

The  voice  of  terror  broke  : 
"  Behold  !  we  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
We  perish,  Lord  !  but  thou  canst  save." 

Slowly  he  rose  ;  and  mild  rebuke 

Shone  in  his  soft  and  heaven-lit  eye  : 

"  O  ye  of  little  faith,"  he  cried, 
"  Is  not  your  master  nigh  ? 


48  POEMS. 

Is  not  your  hope  of  succor  just? 
Why  know  ye  not  in  whom  ye  trust  ? " 

He  turned  away,  and  conscious  power 

Dilated  his  majestic  form, 
As  o'er  the  boiling  sea  he  bent, 

The  ruler  of  the  storm  ; 
Earth  to  its  centre  felt  the  thrill, 
As  low  he  murmured  :  "  Peace  !  Be  still !  " 

Hark  to  the  burst  of  meeting  waves, 
The  roaring  of  the  angry  sea ! 

A  moment  more,  and  all  is  hushed 
In  deep  tranquillity; 

While  not  a  breeze  is  near  to  break 

The  mirrored  surface  of  the  lake. 

Then  on  the  stricken  hearts  of  all, 
Fell  anxious  doubt  and  holy  awe, 

As  timidly  they  gazed  on  him 
Whose  will  was  nature's  law  : 

"What  man  is  this,"  they  cry,  "whose  word 

E'en  by  the  raging  sea  is  heard  ?  " 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  CALAIS.         49 


THE  SURRENDER  OF  CALAIS. 

1  HE  king  was  in  his  tent, 

And  his  lofty  heart  beat  high, 
As  he  gazed  on  the  city's  battered  walls 
With  proud   and  flashing  eye  ; 
But  darker  grew  his   brow  and   stern, 

As   slowly  onward   came 
The  chiefs  who  long  had   dared  to  spurn 
The   terror  of  his  name. 

With  calm  and   changeless  cheek 

Before  the  king   they  stood, 
For  their  native   soil   to  offer  up 

The  sacrifice  of  blood. 
Like  felons  were  they  meanly  clad, 

But  the  lightning   of  their  look, 
The  marble   sternness   of  their  brow, 

E'en  the  monarch   could   not   brook. 

With  angry   voice   he   cried : 

"  Haste  !  bear  them  off  to  death ; 
Let  the  trumpet's  joyous  shout  be  blent 

With  the  traitors'  parting  breath  ! " 
Then  silently  they  turned  away, 

Nor  word   nor   sound   awoke, 
Till  from  the   monarch's  haughty  train, 

The   voice  of  horror  broke. 
4 


50  POEMS. 

When  hark !  a  step  draws   near, 

Not  like  the  heavy  clang 
Of  the  warrior's  tread,   and  through  the  guards 

A  female  figure  sprang  :  — 
"  A  boon  !  a  boon  !  my  noble  king ! 

If  still  thy  heart  can   feel 
The  love  Philippa  once  could  claim, 

Look  on  me  while   I  kneel  ! 

"  Tis  for  thyself  I   pray  ; 

Let   not  the  dark'ning  cloud 
Of  base-born  cruelty  arise, 

Thy  glory  to  enshroud  ! 
Nay,   nay,    I   will   not  rise  ; 

For  never  more  thy  wife 
Will   hail  the  victor,   till  thy  soul 

Can  conquer  passion's  strife  ! 

"  Turn    not  away,   my  king, 

Look  not  in   anger  down, 
I've   lived  so  long  upon  thy  smile 

I   cannot  bear   thy  frown  ; 
O  !  doom  me   not,   dear  lord,   to  feel 

The  pang  all  pangs   above  — 
To  see  the   light   I   worship  fade, 

And  blush  for  him   I  love. 

"  Think  how  for  thee   I   laid 
My  woman's  fears  aside, 
And  dared  where  charging  squadrons  met, 
With   dauntless  front  to  ride ; l 

1  At  the  battle  of  Neville's  Cross,  in  which  the  Scots  were  defeated  and  their  king 
taken  prisoner. 


THE  SURRENDER   OF  CALAIS.  51 

Think  how,   in   all  the  matchless  strength 

Of  woman's  love,  I   spread 
Thy  banners,  till  they  proudly  waved 

In   victory  o'er  my   head. 

"Thou  saidst  that  I  deserved 

To  share   thy  glorious   crown  ; 
O,  force   me   not  to  turn   away 

In  shame   from  thy  renown. 
My  Edward,  thou  wert  wont  to  bear 

A  kind   and  gentle  heart ; 
Then  listen  to  Philippa's  prayer, 

And  let  these  men  depart." 

O,  what  is  all   the  pride 

Of  man's  oft  boasted  power, 
Compared  with  those  sweet  dreams  that  wake 

In   love's   triumphant  hour? 
Slowly  the    haughty   king   unbent 

His   stern   and  vengeful    brow, 
And   the   look  he  turned   upon   her  face 

Was  filled  with  fondness  now. 

Ne'er  yet  was  woman  slow 

To   read   in  tell-tale   eyes 
Such  thoughts   as  these ;    a  moment  more, 

And  on  his  breast  she  lies ; 
Then  while  her   slender  form   still  clung 

To   his   supporting   arm, 
He  cried,   "  Sweet,   be  it  as  thou  wilt  — 

They  shall  not  meet  with   harm." 


52  POEMS. 

Then  from   the  patriot  band 

Arose  one   thrilling  cry, 
And  tears  rained  down   the  iron  cheek 

That  turned   unblenched  to   die  ; 
"  Now  we  indeed  are  slaves,"   they  cried, 
"  Now   vain   our   warlike    arts  ; 
Edward   has  now  our   shattered  walls, 

Philippa  wins  our  hearts." 


MARY'S  LAMENT. 

"  The  queen  ceased  not  to  direct  her  looks  to  the  shore  of  France,  until  the  dark 
ness  interrupted  her  wishful  eyes.  At  the  dawn  of  day  the  coast  of  France  was  still 
in  sight,  the  galleys  having  made  but  little  progress  during  the  night.  While  it  re 
mained  in  view  she  often  repeated,  '  Farewell,  France  !  farewell  !  I  shall  never  see 
you  more.'  "  —  CHALMERS'  Life  of  the  Scottish  Queen. 

AREWELL,  dear  France,  my  sad  heart's  chosen 

home, 

Land  of  my  earliest  joys,  a  last  farewell. 
Still  o'er  thy  shores  mine  eyes  delighted  roam, 
But  O  !  the  cruel  winds  the  white  sails  swell, 
And  when  to-morrow  dawns  my  look  shall  dwell 
Only  upon  the  rushing  waves  that  bear 
My  bark  too  swiftly  on  to  reach  its  port  of  care. 

Alas  !  alas  !  till  now  I  never  knew 

How  sharp  might  be  the  thoins  that  line  a  crown ; 
O  !  woe  is  mine  that  thus  am  doomed  to  view 

At  once  the  smile  of  fortune  and  her  frown, 

And  find  my  spirit  in  the  dust  cast  down, 


MARY'S  LAMENT.  53 

When  pride  would  bid  me  think  on  queenly  state, 
And  spurn  mid  glory's  dreams  the  humbler  ills  of  fate. 

Yet  ah  !  how  can  the  mournful  widow's  heart 
Turn  to  the  thoughts  ambition  might  awake  ! 

Doomed  from  the  husband  of  my  youth  to  part, 
What  pleasure  now  in  glory  can  I  take  ! 
When  most  I  prized  it,  'twas  for  his  dear  sake  ; 

My  loftiest  aim  was  but  to  share  his  throne  — 

How  can  my  weak  hand  bear  the  sceptre's  weight  alone  ! 

Like  you,  pale  moon,  must  be  my  dreary  way. 
Lonely  she  shines,  although  so  pure  and  bright, 

And  as  she  blends  not  with  the  sun's  rich  ray, 
But  waits  his  absence  to  diffuse  her  light, 
So  only  since  my  day  has  turned  to  night 

Has  so  much  splendor  gathered  round  my  name  ; 

Alas  !  how  happier  far  had  I  but  shared  his  fame ! 

But  he  is  gone,  and  I  his  heavy  loss 

Through  many  a  lonely  year  am  doomed  to  weep  ; 
Yet  oft  my  thoughts  the  dark  blue  sea  will  cross 

To  seek  the  spot  where  all  I  love  cloth  sleep ; 

For  in  my  husband's  grave  is  buried  deep 
The  all  of  joy  that  I  could  ever  taste, 
And  glory  but  illumes  my  lone  heart's  blighted  waste. 


FRAGMENT. 

!HEY  knew  it  was  their  destiny  to  sever, 
And  yet  they  loved  with  that  intensity, 
That  deep,. devouring  passion,  which  may  never 
Seek  in  this  selfish  world  for  happiness. 
Yet  they  had  learned  to  suffer,  and  could  see 
Their  dearest  pleasures  daily  vanishing ; 
But  Fate  had  yet  one  arrow  left  to  sting 
Their  hearts  to  madness.     They  could  calmly  bear 
To  lose  each  earthly  joy,  so  they  might  share 
Each  other's  sorrow,  but  the  hour  was  nigh 
When  they  must  part  in  life,  to  linger  on 
And  struggle  with  a  breaking  heart  alone, 
Or  yield  at  once  to  wretchedness,  and  die. 

She  had  been  beautiful ;  but  now  that  worst 

Most  fatal  sickness,  soirow,  long  had  preyed 

Upon  her  beauty.     Young  affection,  nurst 

In  loneliness  and  tears,  too  soon  will  fade 

The  bloom  on  woman's  cheek.     Yet  she  would  hide 

Her  sufferings  from  him,  and  whene'er  he  sighed 

In  sad  foreboding,  she  would  gayly  smile, 

And  with  kind,  cheerful  words  his  grief  beguile. 


THE  S/S  TEA'S.  55 

O  !  man,  ungrateful  man  can  never  know 

The  force  of  woman's  love  — how  deep,  how  strong 

Is  her  enduring  tenderness  in  woe. 

Still  found  the  firmest  friend,  when  the  world's  wrong 

Weighs  on  the  heart,  her  hand  is  ever  near 

To  soothe  the  pang  and  wipe  the  starting  tear. 

In  joy's  bright  hour  her  playfulness  may  gain 

A  homage  that  proud  man  denies  in  vain  ; 

But  'tis  in  sorrow,  danger,  and  distress 

That  woman  shines  in  all  her  loveliness. 

In  calm   forgetfulness  of  self  she  braves 

The  world's  worst  storms  ;  one  sole  reward  she  craves  — 

To  know  that  she  has  turned  aside  one  dart 

Meant  for  his  breast,  e'en  though  it  rankles  in  her  heart. 


THE  SISTERS. 

!HE  elder  was  a  small  and  slender  girl, 
With  sweet  low  brow,  o'erhung  by  many  a  curl 
Of  raven  blackness,  and  soft  eyes  as  blue 
As  the  bright  summer  sky  just  trembling  through 
A  silvery  cloud  ;  her  long  dark  lashes  shaded 
A  cheek  whose   roses  grief  had  sadly  faded  ; 
But  her  sweet  lips,  so  statue-like,  —  O  ne'er 
Could  fancy  image  loveliness  so  rare  ; 
Their  soft  and  delicate  outline  might  have  seemed 
Almost  voluptuous,  but  that  her  face  beamed 
With  such  soft  purity  as  dwells  within 
An  infant's  heart  that  ne'er  has  dreamed  of  sin. 


56  POEMS. 

The  other  sister  was  more  tall  and  fair, 

With  lofty  forehead,  and  long  dark-brown  hair  ; 

Her  eyes  were  bright,  but  yet  they  never  knew 

A  beauty  of  expression  or  of  hue  ; 

At  times  her  cheek  wore  a  slight  transient   glow, 

A  trace  of  earlier  days  —  but  her  high  brow 

Was  the  sole  charm  that  dwelt  in  Ella's  face, 

And  e'en  this  was  too  high  for  female  grace. 

And  their  minds,  too,  were  different.     Nina's  soul 

Was  meek  and  gentle ;  her  soft  sweet  voice  stole 

Upon  the  ear  like  music  heard  at  night 

Across  the  moonlit  waves.     Those  thousand  slight 

And  nameless  kindnesses  that  to  each  heart 

A  feeling  of  calm  tenderness  impart, 

Like  the  mild  dews  that  on  each  flow'ret  fall. 

Silently  shedding  freshness  upon  all  ; 

That  unsuspecting  innocence  which  must, 

Though  oft  deceived,  to  tones  of  kindness  trust  ; 

That  purity  of  heart  which  never  dreams 

Man  can  be  other  than  the  thing  he  seems,  — 

All  these  were  Nina's  charms.     But  Ella's  proud 

And  haughty  spirit  never  yet  had  bowed 

To  such  all  perfect  gentleness  ;   her  mind 

Was  far  less  feminine.     Yet  there  were  kind 

And  tender  feelings  hidden  in  her  breast, 

But,  taught  by  pride,  those  feelings  she  represt ; 

And  oft  her  heart  was  crowded  by  a  throng 

Of  thoughts  that  the  cold  world  had  counted  wrong  ; 

Still  they  were  cherished,  for  she  only  felt 

That  none  could  know  the  shrine  at  which  she  knelt. 


THE   SISTERS.  57 

It  might  be  wrong  that  she  should  thus  adore, 
But  this  was  nothing,   since  she  calmly  bore 
The  punishment,  nor  ever  sought  to  be 
An  idol  'mid  the  scenes  of  gayety. 

There  is  a  fount  of  love  that  ever  springs 

Unstained  and  clear  in  woman's  heart,  and  flings 

Its  sweetness  over  all  within  the  sphere 

Of  her  mild  kindness  ;  this  made  Nina  dear 

To  all  that  dwelt  around  her:  but  'twas  hid 

Closely  in  Ella's  bosom,  and  forbid 

To  pour  its  full  and  perfect  tenderness 

Where  it  most  wished  to  flow ;  'twas  given  to  bless 

The  only  being  who  on  her  relied 

For  comfort  or  affection  ;  and  with  pride 

She  gazed  upon  her  Nina's  gentle  form, 

Whose  every  slightest   movement  had  a  charm 

Equally  lovely  when  she  gayly  smiled 

As  innocent  and  playful  as  a  child, 

Or  when  some  sudden  recollection  brought 

Back  to  her  heart  its  dreams  of  saddened  thought. 

Nina  had  suffered  sorrow  ;  her  short  life 

Had  been  a  mournful  scene  of  pain  and  strife. 

Her  heart  was  like  a  delicate  wild  flower  given 

To  grow  up   'neath  the  light  and  dews  of  heaven, 

Unfit  to  suffer  e'en  the  wind's  wild's  mirth ; 

Yet  it  had  felt  the  rudest  storms  of  earth, 

And  when  the  wintry  tempest  had  passed  o'er 

It  seemed  to  smile  as  gayly  as  before. 

Alas!  no  sunshine's  renovating  power 

Could  give  its  wonted  brightness  to  that  flower, 


58  POEMS. 

For  withering  grief  consumed  it,  and  decay 
Was  slowly  wasting  all  its  bloom  away. 

Months  rolled  away,  but  painful  thought  had  lain 

With  a  deep  burning  weight  on  Nina's  brain, 

And  maddened  her ;  now  'mid  strange  fantasies 

Her  mind  was  ever  dwelling,  and  her  eyes 

Roamed  o'er  the  world  as  o'er  a  dreary  waste 

Whose  very  fruits  were  bitter  to  the  taste. 

Yet  was  her  spirit  pure,  e'en  as  the  brook, 

Though  turned  aside  its  course,  gives  back  the  look 

Of  the  blue  heaven,  while  meaner  things  find  rest 

Only  in  broken  shadows  on  its  breast. 

But  if  there  was  a  solitary  trace 

Of  memory  left,  'twas  when  the  mournful    face 

Of  Ella  met  her  view,  and  still  she  clung 

To  that  fond  bosom  while  her  own  was  wrung 

With  agonizing  pain  ;  yet  Ella's  doom 

Was  one  of  unmixed  suffering,  for  the  bloom 

Was  quickly  fading  from  young  Nina's  cheek, 

And  her  frame  grew  more  wasted  and  more  weak,  — 

Aye,  many  a  lengthened  night  and  weary  day 

She  watched  the  certain  progress  of  decay 

O'er  Nina's  loveliness,  till   friendly  Death 

Gave  his  last  summons.     Then,  as  if  the  breath 

Of  some  much  loved  one  thrilled  her  frame,  she  sighed, 

And,  smiling  tenderly  on  Ella,  died. 


EDGAR  AND  ADA.  59 


EDGAR   AND    ADA. 

"The  wretched  are  the  faithful." 

BYRON,  Lament  of  Tassa. 

'E  was  all  manly  beauty,  and  she  seemed 
As  fair  a  form  as  ever  poet  dreamed 
'Mid  early  love's  imaginings  ;  with   eyes 
Dove-like  and  beautiful,  and  lofty  brow, 
White  as  the  snow  on  Alpine  summits  lies  ; 
Upon  her  cheek  there  was  a  brilliant  glow 
Like  young  Aurora's  earliest,  brightest  blush, 
Deepening  at  her  sweet  lip,  till  it  became 
The  crimson  tint  of  summer  eve  ;  the  flush 
Of  changeful  feeling,  hope,  or  joy,  or   shame, 
Gave  sweetness  to  a  face  that  else  had  been 
Too  samely  beautiful :    none  e'er  had  seen 
Her  innocent    smile  but  paused  to  look  again, 
She  seemed  so  pure,  so  free  from  every  stain 
Of  earthly  feeling  ;  and  young  Edgar's  heart 
Scarce  trusted  its  own   bliss  when  in  her  face 
He  read  (what  nought  save  looks  can  e'er  impart) 
The  love,  the  tenderness  that  steals  new  grace 
From  maiden  bashfulness  ;  aye,  low  his  proud 
And  lofty  spirit  at  her  shrine  was  bowed. 
The  guileless  fancies  of  unsullied  youth  ; 
Its  high-souled  aspirations  after  truth  ; 
The  innocent  wishes,  vague  and  undefined  ; 
The  brilliant  visions  of  a  lofty  mind ; 
The  hope  that  only  on  fame's  mountain  height 
His  eagle  spirit  e'er  should  rest  its  flight,  — 


60  POEMS. 

All  these  were  his  ;  and  when  the  traitor  Love 

Around  that  spirit's  snowy  pinions  wove 

His  silken  bonds,  in  vain  might  he  essay 

Its  heavenward  course   'mid  myrtle  groves  to  stay ; 

The  soft,  light  fetters   only  seemed  to  bring 

Renewed  freshness  to  each  radiant  wing. 

Yet  all  his  soul  was  hers  ;  and  what  did  she 

With  such  a  prize  ?     Did  she  not  joy  to  see 

Its  proud  upspringing  ?     Did  she  not  aspire 

To  catch  a  spark  of  the  ethereal  fire  ? 

And  did  not  her  less  powerful    mind  reflect 

A  brightness  from  his  vivid  intellect  ? 

No !  all  too  glorious  was  the  dazzling  blaze 

Of  genius  placed  before  her  timid  gaze  ; 

She  shrank  before  his  brilliancy,  content 

To  find  in  vanity  her  element. 

His  love  for  her  was  pure  as  it  was  deep  ; 

Not  like  the  shallow  brook  whose  wavelets  break 

When  the'  light  breezes  o'er  its  surface  sweep, 

But  like  the  mighty  ocean   that  can  wake 

Only  to  brave  the  tempest. 

But  when  all  thought  him  happiest, — for  the  time 

When  he  might  claim  his  promised  bride  drew  near 

(Alas  !  they  know  not  the  heart's  changeful  clime 

Who  only  see  its  summer  flowers),  —  a  shade 

Gathered  upon  his  brow  ;  he  seemed  to  wear 

Less  joyous  smiles  than  he  was  wont.     'Twas  said 

That  she  was  faithless ;  but  he  breathed  not  one 

Unkind  reproach  ;  the  soul  of  life  was  gone 

From  him  forever  ;  and  nought  now  was  left 


EDGAR  AND  ADA.  6 1 

Save  a  wide  waste  of  all  its  bloom  bereft. 

The  idol  he  had  worshipped  was  o'erthrown  ; 

Its  ruined  fane  was  in  his  heart  alone. 

Yet  he  could  not  believe  that  she  would  brook 

Another's  tenderness  —  a  little  while 

And  she  was  wedded  ;  he  beheld  her  smile 

Upon  another  with  the  same  sweet  look 

That  once  had  greeted  him  :  then  first  he  knew 

His  bosom's  hopeless  misery  ;  then  too 

He  felt  how  surely  she  had  withered  all 

His  spirit's  high-wrought  energies  ;  in  vain 

He  strove  his  hopes  of  glory  to  recall  — 

Alas  !  there  was  no  guerdon  now  to  gain. 

He  deemed  hope  dead  within  his  heart,  and  then 
Alas  !  he  plunged  amid  the  haunts  of  men. 
Aye,  that  proud  heart,  so  full  of  holy  feeling, 
Was  joined  unto  the  world  —  the  stain  of  earth 
So  slowly  o'er  his  guileless  bosom  stealing, 
Though  hid  beneath  the  sparkling  flowers  of  mirth 
A  darker,  deeper  madness  could  impart 
Than  even  grief  had  left  within  his  heart. 
His  spirit's  plumes  were  sullied  ;  but  not  long 
He  paused  to  hear  soft  pleasure's  syren  song ; 
Not  long  his  noble  nature  thus  could  bear 
The  joys  where  innocence  might  find  no  share. 

There  was  a  gentle  girl  for  whom  he  felt 
A  brother's  tenderness,  and  she  knew  well 
His  wrongs  and  sufferings  ;  often  had  she  knelt 
Beside  him  when  she  marked  the  fearful  swell 


62  POEMS. 

Of  the  blue  veins  upon  his  brow,  which  told 
That  thought  again  her  record  had  unrolled  ; 
And  she  alone  his  sadness  could  beguile 
With  her  soft  voice,  her  sweetly  pensive  smile, 
Or  soothe  with  tears  she  sought  not  to  repress. 
She  spoke  to  him  of  peace  (for  happiness 
She  knew  he  hoped  no  longer),  and  she  gave 
Fresh  motive  for  exertion  :   day  by  day 
Her  gentle  kindness  won  its  silent  way, 
Until  he  felt  that  he  again  could  brave 
The  world's  wild  storms.     Affection's  deepest  stream 
Was  sealed  within  his  bosom  ;  but  the  beam 
Of  kind  benevolence  across  it  glowed 
Until  it  seemed  as  though  again  it  flowed 
Unfettered ;  but  such  thought  indeed  were  vain  — 
Nought  now  on  earth  could  e'er  unloose  that  chain  ; 
His  lip  again  a  tranquil  smile  might  wear, 
But  memory's  waste  was  ruled  by  fell  despair. 

Yet  Ada  felt  that  deep  and  passionate  love 
Was  in  her  heart ;  at  first  she  vainly  strove 
Against  its  power ;  she  knew  she  ought  to  fly  ; 
Yet  what  kind,  gentle  one  would  then  be  nigh 
To  watch  o'er  Edgar's  melancholy  mood, 
And  save  him  from  the  heart's  dread  solitude  ? 
O  !  man  can  never  know  what  treasures  lie 
Within  the  quiet  depths  of  woman's  soul  ; 
How  strong  the  fortitude  that  dares  to  die 
E'en  with  a  broken  heart,  yet  can  control 
Each  painful  murmur.       Ada  knew  she  ne'er 
Could  be  aught  than  his  sister,  though  so  dear 


EDGAR  AND  ADA.  63 

Her  innocent  heart  had  held  him  —  a  few  years 
Of  mingled  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears, 
And  then  they  must  be  parted  ;  he  would  wear 
Upon  his  brow  the  laurel's  fadeless  bloom, 
While  her  heart,  worn  by  many  a  secret  tear, 
Would  find  its  shelter  in  the  silent  tomb. 

Days  passed  away,  and  Ada's  bloom  had  fled. 
She  felt  that  soon  the  city  of  the  dead 
Would  greet  her  as  its  habitant ;  and  yet 
Her  gentle  bosom  breathed  not  one  regret : 
She  feared  if  she  should  live  and  he  depart, 
Grief  might  reveal  the  secret  of  her  heart ; 
But  now  while  she  could  listen  to  his  voice 
Whose  silver  tones  bade  her  sad  soul  rejoice  ; 
Now  while  to  her  his  tenderness  was  given, 
Death  was  the  dearest  boon  she  sought  from  Heaven. 
Yet  e'en  this  consolation  was  denied  ; 
For  accident  revealed  what  maiden  pride 
Had  closely  hidden  ;  pangs  that  long  had  slept 
In  Edgar's  breast  were  roused  :  "  Have  I  doomed  thee, 
Mine  innocent  child,  to  hopeless  misery  ?  " 
He  clasped  her  to  his  bosom  and  they  wept, 
Bitterly  wept  together  ;  but  she  rose 
As  though  the  fountains  of  her  weeping  froze 
E'en  in  their  flow,  her  arms  were  round  him  thrown, 
One  kiss  upon  his  brow,  and  she  was  gone. 

Days,  weeks  passed  on  ;  but  from  that  time  he  ne'er 
Had  seen  sweet  Ada  ;  many  a  bitter  tear 
Had  he  in  secret  shed,  when  he  was  told 


64  POEMS. 

That  she  was  dying ;  ere  that  heart  was  cold 
Which  had  loved  him  so  well,  ere  she  was  free 
From  worldly  thoughts,  she  prayed  his  face  to  see. 
He  came  ;  she  sat  beside  the  lattice,  where 
The  jasmine  twined  its  bridal  blossoms  fair ; 
A  transient  blush  suffused  her  cheek  ;  she  sighed  : 
"  Think  like  this  flower  thine  own  dear  Ada  died  ; 
It  felt  no  lightning-stroke,  no  tempest's  strife, 
But  withered  'neath  the  sun  that  gave  it  life." 
She  laid  her  head  upon  his  breast  —  life's  last 
And  happiest  moment  —  then  —  her  spirit  passed  ! 


THE    MOTHER. 

"  To  aid  thy  mind's  development  ;  to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  joys  ;  to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth  ;  to  view  thee  catch 
Knowledge  of  objects,  wonders  yet  to  thee  ! 
To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 
And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's  kiss,  — 
This,  it  should  seem  was  not  reserved  for  me." 

Childe  Harold. 

ERS  was  no  brilliant  beauty  ;  a  pale  tint, 
As  if  a  rose-leaf  there  had  left  its  print, 
Was  on  her  cheek  ;  her  brow  was  high  and  fair, 

Crossed  by  light  waving  bands  of  chestnut  hair ; 

Her  eyes  were  cast  down  on  the  lovely  boy, 

Beside  whose  couch  she  knelt  ;  but  such  calm  joy, 

Such  beautiful  tranquillity  as  dwelt 

Upon  her  features,  none  have  ever  felt 


THE  MOTHER.  65 

Save  a  fond  mother :  her  tall  graceful  form 

Was  bending  o'er  him,  and  one  round  white  arm 

Supported  his  fair  head,  while  her  hand  prest 

Her  bosom,  as  she  feared  that  he  might  start 

To  feel  the  quickened  pulses  of  her  heart. 

Yet  still  she  drew  him  nearer  to  her  breast 

Almost  unconsciously.     At  length  he  woke, 

And  the  soft  sounds  that  from  his  sweet  lips  broke, 

Were  like  the  gentle  murmurings  of  a  brook 

Along  its  pebbly  channel  ;  but  her  look 

Told  joy  that  lay  too  deep  for  smiles  or  tears  : 

'Twas  a  strange  happiness  where  hopes  and  fears 

Were  wildly  blended,  yet  'twas  happiness  ; 

For  well  she  knew  that  nought  on  earth  could  bless 

A  woman's  heart  like  the  deep,  deathless  love 

A  mother  feels  :  all  other  joys  may  prove 

But  sin  or  vanity  ;  this,  this  alone 

With  perfect  peace  and  purity  is  fraught. 

On  the  fair  tablet  of  a  mother's  thought 

There  is  no  stain  of  passion  •  'tis  the  one 

Sole  trace  of  that  pure  joy  man's  knowledge  cost,  — 

Sole  remnant  of  the  heaven  our  parents  lost. 

When  first  man  from  his  paradise  was  driven, 
Woman's  sweet  wiles  and  witcheries  were  given 
To  cheer  him  through  life's  dreary  wilderness  ; 
But  what  was  left  her  erring  heart  to  bless? 
She  once  had  loved  him  as  a  being  sent 
From  heaven  in  God's  own  image,  yet  he  went 
Astray  e'en  at  her  bidding  —  loved  she  less  ? 
No,  but  her  adoration  now  was  o'er; 
5 


66  POEMS. 

And  earthly  passions,  sinless  now  no  more, 
Absorbed  her  heart,  while  every  pang  or  sigh 
That  burst  from  him  thrilled  her  with  agony. 
His  stern  reproach,  too,  she  endured  unmoved 
And  patient,  for  she  felt  how  much  she  loved. 
Then,  to  repay  her  sufferings,  and  atone 
For  man's  unkindness,  seeds  of  joy  were  sown 
Within  her  heart  —  a  mother's  love  was  given, 
And  this  repaid  her  for  the  loss  of  heaven. 

O  !  but  to  watch  the  infant  as  he  lies 

Pillowed  upon  his  mother's  breast  ;  his  eyes 

Fixed  on  her  face,  as  if  his  only  light 

On  earth  beamed  from  that  face  with  fondness  bright  ; 

Or  to  gaze  on  him  sleeping,  while  his  cheek 

Moves  with  her  heart's  glad  throbbings  that  bespeak 

Feeling  too  full  for  words  ;  see  him  break 

The  silken  chains  of  slumber  and  awake 

All  light  and  beauty,  while  he  lisps  her  name  — 

"  Mother, !  "  —  although  his  childish  lips  can  frame 

No  other  sound.     O  !  who,  with  joy  like  this 

Could  ask  from  heaven  a  dearer,  deeper  bliss  ? 

Again  I  saw  the  mother  bending  o'er 
The  pillow  of  her  babe  ;  but  joy  no  more 
Was  pictured  in  her  face  :  her  sunken  cheek, 
Her  faltering  accents,  tremulous  and  weak, 
Told  a  sad  tale  :  she  had  hung  o'er  that  couch 
For  many  a  weary  night,  and  every  touch 
Of  his  thin,  wasted  hand  seemed  to  impart 
A  thrilling  sense  of  pain  to  her  young  heart ; 


THE  MOTHER.  67 

Yet  deemed  she  not  that  death  could  now  destroy 

So  bright  a  blossom  as  her  darling  boy. 

She  feared  not  that ;  she  felt  she  could  not  bring 

Aught  to  relieve  him  ;  this  to  her  was  death. 

But  when  at  last  she  felt  his  feverish  breath 

Pass  o'er  her  brow,  the  deadly  withering 

Of  early  hope  that  young  hearts  only  know, 

First  taught  her  all  a  youthful  mother's  woe. 

Oft  would  she  check  the  bursting  sob  of  pain 

When,  as  she  marked  the  evening  planets  wane, 

She  thought  that  though  another  day  had  past, 

Another  came  as  mournful  as  the  last  ; 

And  oftentimes  the  bright,  big  tear  unbid 

Would  gather  slowly  'neath  her  long-fringed  lid, 

As  rain-drops  mark  the  coming  storm  whose  shock 

Shall  blast  the  wild  flower  and  its  sheltering  rock 

In  the  same  ruin  ;  but  each  coming  day 

She  saw  him  wasting.     One  eve  as  he  lay 

Within  her  arms,  the  moonbeams  shining  bright 

Gave  to  his  pallid  face  a  ghastly  light : 

She  gazed  on  him  —  she  bent  to  hear  his  breath  — 

His  heart  throbbed  faintly  —  then  —  she  gazed  on  Death  ! 


68  POEMS. 

MINA. 

"  Nature  is  fine  in  love  ;  and  when  'tis  fine 
It  sends  some  precious  irstance  of  itself 
After  the  thing  it  loves."  —  Hamlet. 

T  was  the  place  of  tombs;  the  dark-leaved  yew 
And  bending  willow  their  sad  shadows  threw 
Across  the  lowly  graves  ;  no  sound  was  heard 
Save  the  soft  murmur  of  a  rippling  stream, 
Or  the  light  carol  of  the  lark  that  stirred 
The  balmy  air  with  music  :  it  might  seem 
That  all  things  slept  in  some  delicious  dream. 
There  was  a  hillock  decked  with  many  a  wreath 
Of  young  spring-flowers,  but  they  had  faded  'neath 
The  morning  sun,  like  young  hopes  pure  and  bright 
Withering  beneath  the  look  that  gave  them  light. 
And  to  that  grave  there  came  the  form  of  one 
Who  had  been  beautiful ;  but  sickness  now, 
And  sorrow,  too,  had  marked  her  for  their  own, 
And  stolen  the  joyous  beauty  from  her  brow. 
On  the  damp  grass  she  many  a  night  had  lain, 
The  star-gemmed  heavens  her  only  canopy ; 
And  this  had  dimmed  the  lustre  of  her  eye, 
And  faded  her  young  cheek  ;  she  came  again 
To  deck  with  fresh  culled  flowers  the  lonely  spot 
She  loved  so  well.     She  sighed :  "  Sure  these  are  not 
The  flowers  I  braided  ;  ah  !  the  cruel  sun 
Has  touched  them,  and  their  loveliness  is  gone." 
She  threw  herself  beside  the  grave  and  wreathed 
The  dewy  flowers,  while  mournfully  she  breathed 
A  low  and  broken  melody :  — 


MINA.  69 

Aye,  flowers  may  glow 
In  new-born  beauty,  and  the  rosy  spring 
To  deck  the  earth  her  sparkling  wreaths  may  bring; 

But  where  art  thou  ? 

The  early  bloom 

Of  flowers  in  freshest  infancy  I  wreathe, 
Their  transient  life  of  fragrancy  to  breathe 

Upon   thy  tomb. 

And  I  have  sought 

The  lowly  violet,  that  in  shade  appears 
Shrinking  from  view,  like  young  love's  tender  fears, 

With  sweetness  fraught. 

And  rosebuds,  too, 

Crimson  as  young  Aurora's  blush,  or  white 
As  woman's  cheek  when  touched  by  sorrow's  blight, 

O'er  thee  I  slrew. 

And  flowers  that  close 

Their  buds  beneath  the  sun,  but  pure  and  pale 
Ope  their  sweet  blossoms  'neath  the  dewy  veil 

That  evening  throws. 


The  fragrant  leaves 

Of  the  white  lily,  too,  with  these  I  twine, 
The  drooping  lily  that  seems  born  to  shine 

Where  true  love  grieves. 


70  POEMS. 

But  what  cloth  this 

Half  withered  bud  amid  my  blooming  wreath? 
Already  its  young  charms  have  faded  'neath 

The  sun's  warm  kiss. 

Ah!  this  shall  lie 

Upon  my  bosom  ;  it  is  fit  to  strew 
Such  blighted  flowers  o'er  her  who  only  knew 

To  love  and  die  !  — 

There  will  be  none 

To  deck  thy  grave  with  flowers  and  chant  for  thee 
These  snatches  of  remembered  melody 

When  I  am  gone ; 

But  thou  shalt  have 

A  gift  more  pure  than  e'en  the  buds  I  fling  — 
A  broken  heart  —  my  latest  offering 

Upon  thy  grave. 

She  laid 

Upon  the  verdant  flower-wreathed  turf  her  head ; 
The  breeze  amid  her  long,  dark  ringlets  played, 
And  thus  she  slept  —  the  dying  with  the  dead. 

Hers  was  no  wondrous  history ;  should  we  seek 
The  cause  that  fades  the  bloom  of  woman's  cheek, 
'Twould  oft  be  found  a  tale  like  this,  —  she  loved 
As  woman  ever  loves  —  undoubtingly  ; 
His  rich-toned  voice  o'er  her  young  pulses  moved 


MINA.  7 

Like  the  soft  breath  of  summer  airs  that  sigh 
Upon  the  wind-god's  harp ;  his  glorious  eye 
To  her  was  as  the  sunbeam  from  on  high 
Nursing  the  passion-flowers  within  her  heart, 
And  teaching  them  their  fragrance  to  impart. 
He  knew  not  all  her  love ;  she  taught  the  deep 
And  strong  emotions  of  her  breast  to  sleep 
Beneath  mirth's  semblance,  and  whene'er  she  heard 
His  footstep,  though  her  feelings  wildly  stirred, 
The  trembling  of  her  downcast  lid,  her  cheek 
Suffused  with  blushes  —  these  alone  could  speak 
Her  woman's  fondness.     Ernold  toyed  awhile 
With  the  fond  heart  whose  every  throb  was  fraught 
With  tenderness  for  him  ;  and  then  the  smile 
Of  one  more  fair  claimed  all  the  truant's  thought. 
Aye,  thus  man  values  woman's  heart  —  a  toy 
That  may  amuse  his  changeful  hours  of  joy, 
Or  charm  his  bosom's  waywardness,  then  cast 
Aside,  or  broken  when  the  mood  is  past. 

'Twere  vain  to  tell  of  Mina's  hopes  and  fears, 

Her  seeming  gayety  and  secret  tears ; 

Woman  too  oft  is  doomed  such  pangs  to  prove, 

And  man  —  why  should  he  know  of  woman's  love? 

Too  soon  the  loved,  the  faithless  one  was  wed 

To  one  so  beautiful  she  seemed  to  make 

A  very  heaven  about  her,  and  to  take 

Captive  those  hearts  whence  feeling  long  had  fled  ; 

Yet  she  was  cold  to  him  as  is  the  snow 

On  mountain  tops  —  she  should  have  been  as  pure  — 

And  silently  he  bade  his  heart  endure 


72  POEMS. 

To  see  the  same  cold  smiles  upon  her  brow, 

Like  sunbeams  glittering  o'er  a  frozen  lake. 

At  length  came  one  with  magic  power  to  wake 

The  beautiful  statue  into  life,  and  she 

Who  should  have  shared  her  husband's  destiny, 

Unchanged  through  every  change,  was  faithless !  gave 

Her  name,  her  honor  to  become  the  slave 

Of  sinful  passion.     From  that  fatal  day 

Grief  wore  the  wretched  Ernold's  life  away ; 

And  when  pain  thus  had  wrung  him,  and  decay 

Had  marked  him  for  the  grave,  remembering  nought 

Save  that  he  now  was  wretched,  Mina  sought 

To  soothe  his  misery ;  and  oft  she  led 

His  trembling  footsteps  to  the  river  side, 

Upon  whose  green  bank  they  were  wont  to  tread 

When  life  was  brighter,  and  whene'er  he  tried 

To  banish  sad  remembrance,  she  would  smile 

And  seek  with  cheerful  words  his  grief  to  'guile. 

Death  came  at  length  ;  she  lived  to  dress  his  tomb 

With    sweet    spring    flowers,    but    pain     had    stolen    her 

bloom. 

She  knew  that  she  was  dying  ;  one  bright  morn 
She  went  again  the  green  grave  to  adorn, 
Hut  she  returned  not  —  she  had  calmly  laid 
Her  cheek  upon  the  grassy  mound,  a  braid 
Of  fresh  buds  in  her  hand,  and  thus  beside 
Her  lover's  tomb  her  latest  breath  was  sighed. 


THE  BRIDE.  73 

THE    BRIDE. 

"Say,  as  ye  point  to  my  early  tomb, 

That  the  lover  was  dear  though  the  bridegroom  had  come." 

A  non. 

"  But  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 
Sad  sighs,  deep  groans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears, 
Could  penetrate  her  uncompassionate  sire.' 

Shakespeare. 

'HE  lady  sat  in  sadness  ;  her  fair  lid 
Shrouding  her  eye's  dark  beauty  ;  while  soft  hands 
Were  wreathing  her  thick  tresses,  and  amid 
The  glossy  ringlets  twining  costly  bands 
Of  snowy  pearls  ;  but  oft  the  deep-drawn  sigh 
Heaved  the  rich  robe  that  folded  o'er  her  breast ; 
And  when  she  raised  her  head,  within  her  eye 
Sparkled  a  tear  which  would  not  be  represt. 
She  glanced  towards  the  mirror,  and  a  smile 
Crossed  her  sweet  lip  —  it  was  a  woman's  feeling 
Of  mingled  pride  and  pleasure,  even  while 
The  blight  of  sorrow  o'er  her  heart  was  stealing : 
Yet  as  she  gazed  she  thought  of  by-past  hours, 
When  she  was  wont,  within  the  orange  bowers, 
To  sit  beneath  the  moonlight ;  and  the  arm 
Of  one  she  loved  was  folded  round  her  form, 
While  to  his  throbbing  breast  she  oft  would  cling 
And  playfully  her  loosen'd  tresses  fling, 
Light  fetters,  o'er  his  neck  ;  then,  with  bright  cheek, 
Smile  when  he  strove  his  tenderness  to  speak. 

Another  change  came  o'er  her  face  ;  she  turned 
And  raised  a  crystal  cup  that  near  her  stood ; 


74  POEMS. 

Upon  her  cheek  a  deeper  crimson  burned, 
And  to  her  eye  there  rushed  a  fearful  flood 
Of  wild  emotion  :  eagerly  she  quaffed, 
With  trembling  lip,  the  strangely  blended  draught, 
And  then  in  low  and  faltering  accents  cried  : 
"  Am  I  not  now  a  gay  and  happy  bride  ? " 


She  stood  before  the  altar  ;  her  pale  brow 

Uplifted  to  the  holy  cross.     The  sun 

Shed  through  the  painted  window  a  deep  glow 

Upon  her  cheek  ;  and  he  who  thus  had  won 

Her  hand  without  her  heart,  was  at  her  side  ; 

The  dark-robed  priest,  too  ;  but  as  less  allied 

To  earth  than  heaven,  she  stood.     When  called  to  speak 

The  sad  response,  her  voice  had  grown  so  weak 

She  scarce  could  utter  it ;  her  fragile  form 

Shook  with  convulsed  emotion  ;  but  the  arm 

Of  her  stern  sire  supported  her ;  her  head 

Fell  helpless  on  her  breast,  and  she  was  wed. 

The  bridegroom  pressed  his  lip  to  her  pale  face  ; 

She  shrunk  from  him  as  loathing  his  embrace  ; 

Then  starting  up  with  fearful  calmness  said  : 

"  Father,  I  promised  ;  have  I  not  obeyed  ? 

But  there  is  yet  another  vow  unpaid  ; 

For  I  am  the  betrothed  of  Death,  and  lo  ! 

The  bridegroom  waits  his  promised  bride,  e'en  now. 

Our  nuptial  torch  shall   be  the  glow-worm's  light  ; 

Our  bridal  bed  the  grave.     O  !  it  is  sweet 

To  think  that  there  no  grief  can  throw  its  blight 

O'er  young  affection  —  yes,  e'en  I  can  greet 


DIM  PRO  VISA  TRICE.  7  5 

The  marriage  cup  when  drugged  with  aconite." 
She  trembled  —  would  have  fallen  ;  but  again 
Her  haughty  father's  arm  was  near  :  her  breath 
Grew  fainter  ;  her  breast  heaved  as  with  pain  ; 
Lowly  she  murmured :  "  Let  my  bridal  wreath 
Lie  on  my  bier  —  he  deems  me  faithless  —  now 
Let  him  bend  o'er  this  pale  and  stony  brow, 
And  learn  how  well  I  loved  "  —  one  fleeting  spot 
Of  crimson  crossed  her  cheek  —  and  she  was  not. 


L'IMPROVISATRICE. 

"  As  in  the  sweetest  bud 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  fairest  wits  of  all.'' 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

>ER  cheek,  white  as  the  snowy  couch,  was  prest 
Against  her  delicate  hand  ;  and  her  dark  eye 
Beamed  with  unearthly  light  and  purity  : 
A  hue  like  that  within  the  rosebud's  breast 
Was  on  her  lip,  and  thus  she  told  the  tale 
Of  sorrow  which  had  made  her  cheek  so  pale. 

It  was  in  life's  young  morn  ;  sixteen  short  springs 
Had  scarce  yet  bloomed  for  me  ;  my  soul  was  filled 
With  vague  and  wandering  hopes  ;  imaginings 
Of  some  yet  unknown  bliss  my  bosom  thrilled  : 
I  dreamed  of  some  one  loving  and  beloved, 


76  POEMS. 

Though  yet  unseen,  whose  gentle  whispers  moved 

Like  music  o'er  my  spirit,  till  my  heart 

Was  all  attuned  to  tenderness  and  love. 

It  needed  but  a  master's  hand  to  rove 

Amid  its  chords,  and  teach  them  to  impart, 

A  melody  of  magic  power  to  bless, 

Whose  very  echoes  had  been  happiness. 

Then,  then  'twas  I  first  saw  him  ;  the  dark  eye 

Where  dwelt  the  pride  of  intellect,  the  high 

And  snowy  forehead,  the  lip  full  and  bright, 

The  beaming  smile  like  heaven's  own  sunny  light  — 

These  were  the  charms  that  met  my  gaze,  yet  O  ! 

'Twas  not  alone  the  beauty  of  his  brow 

That  won  my  heart  ;  it  was  the  mind  that  dwelt 

Within  his  form  before  whose  shrine   I  knelt. 

Yet  I  knew  not  I  loved  him  ;  from  the  time 

When  I  first  saw  him,  and  love's  passion-flower 

Was  budded  in  my  young  heart's  sunny  clime, 

Until  the  sad  and  well  remembered  hour 

That  saw  its  full  and  perfect  blossoming 

In  ripened  beauty,  I  knew  not  how  well 

My  tenderness  had  nursed  the  fragile  thing. 

Alas !  his  presence  was  a  mighty  spell 

'Gainst  which  I  could  not  strive  :  his  look,  his  smile 

Had  ever  power  my  sadness  to  beguile  ; 

A  glance  from  his  all  speaking  eye  at  will 

The  troubled  waves  of  painful  thought  could  still. 

He  was  unhappy,  but  I  knew  not  why  ; 

It  was  enough  for  me  that  the  deep  sigh 

Oft  heaved  his  bosom,  and  the  darkening  shade 

Oft  crost  his  brow,  and  bade  his  sweet  smile  fade. 


L'IMPRO  VISA  TRICE.  7  7 

Why  lengthen  out  the  tale  ?     Months  rolled  away, 
Yet   I  was  happy,  and  each  changing  day 
Brought  me  new  pleasure  ;  for  I  still  could  see 
The  being  dearer  than  the  world  to  me. 
But  now  we  soon  must  sever ;  I  should  be 
Forgot,  or  only  claim  a  passing  thought, 
Although  his  every  look  and  tone  were  fraught 
With  sad  remembrance  for  my  after  years 
Of  pain  and  sorrow,  loneliness  and  tears. 

Once  —  'twas  in  twilight's  hour  —  we  sat  alone. 

Each  heart  responding  to  a  saddened  tone. 

I  had  been  weeping  bitterly,  and  now 

One  hand  was  prest  against  my  throbbing  brow, 

The  other  lay  in  his ;  —  I  had  nor  power 

Nor  will  to  draw  it  thence  :  then  bending  o'er 

He  spoke  in  gentlest  words,  and,  with  a  smile 

Full  of  calm  tenderness,  he  sought  to  'guile 

My  mournful  feelings,  and  I  felt  his  arm 

An  instant  closely  clasped  around  my  form  ; 

I  felt  his  lip  upon  my  burning  cheek  — 

The  first,  first  kiss  !  I  sprang  from  his  embrace 

To  hide  my  tearful  and,  aye,  happy  face  ; 

A  moment  past,  and  then,  O  !  words  were  weak 

My  bosom's  thrilling  agony  to  speak  : 

Then  first  mine  eyes  were  opened,  and  I  knew 

How  dearly  my  heart  held  him,  and  then  too 

Came  the  conviction  that  I  loved  in  vain  ; 

I   dare  not  dwell   on  this  —  too  much  of  pain 

Lies  in  the  thought.     On  the  next  night  we  parted, 

But  stranger  eyes  were  near,  and  cold  ones  stood 


78  POEMS. 

Around  us,  and  I  stilled  the  fearful  flood 
Of  wild  emotion  ;  though  half  broken-hearted, 
My  voice  ne'er  faltered,  and  my  clouded  eye 
Was  tearless  ;  if  the  deep-drawn,  struggling  sigh 
Burst  from  my  lip,  'twas  all  unheeded,  while 
My  changeless  cheek  still  wore  a  careless  smile. 

We  parted  ne'er  to  meet  as  we  had  met. 

I  knew  too  well  he  loved  me  not,  and  yet 

'Twas  sweet  to  hear  the  music  of  his  voice, 

And  'neath  his  smiles  to  feel  my  soul  rejoice. 

Time  passed  away,  yet  did  my  bosom  cherish 

Its  fond  idolatry  ;  aye,  love  may  perish 

When  nurst  'mid  pleasures,  but  the  love  that  springs 

From  sorrow,  fed  by  hopelessness,  still  clings 

To  the  young  heart  unchanged  through  every  change  ; 

No  grief  can  chill  it,  and  no  time  estrange  ; 

It  lives  until  it  wastes  the  heart  away  ; 

And  such  was  mine  —  why   do  I  thus  delay  ? 

There  was  a  young,  fair  girl,  with  dove-like,  eyes, 
And  voice  as  gentle  as  the  south  wind's  sighs  ; 
And  when  long  months  had  passed  away,  and  I 
Again  beheld  him,  he  was  seated  nigh 
That  gentle  girl  ;  methought  his  bright  eye  burned 
More  brightly  when  upon  her  face  it  turned. 
'Twas  said  he  sought  her  for  his  bride,  and  she 
Returned  no  answering  fondness.     Could  it  be 
That  he  to  one  who  loved  him  not  had  given 
The  tenderness  which  would  have  been  my  heaven  ? 
I  never  met  him  save  when  at  her  side, 


L 'IMPRO  VISA  TRICE.  7 9 

And  then  my  heart  swelled  high  with  woman's  pride, 

And  hid  my  woman's  love.     At  length  I  grew 

Reckless  of  everything  in  life  ;  a  new 

And  fearful  demon  haunted  all  my  hours, 

And  charged  with  venom  all  my  path's  few  flowers. 

And  then  —  then — all  grew  darkness  ;  ask  me  not 

What  cast  that  shadow  o'er  my  wayward  lot  — 

'Twas  my  own  folly — madness;  but  no  more 

Memory  extends  a  barren  wilclness  there 

And  life  would  fail  me  ere  I  could  tell  o'er 

My  bosom's  agony,  my  heart's  despair. 

But  soon  a  sudden  gleam  of  light  dispelled 

The  darksome  cloud,  and  then  my  proud  heart  swelled 

With  loftier  feelings  ;  I  had  sometimes  strung 

My  humble  lyre,  and  in   low  accents  sung 

Of  love  and  sorrow  ;  now  they  bade  me  sweep 

Its  chords  with  bolder  hand,  nor  let  them  sleep 

In  silence  ;   and  some  said  that  on  my  brow 

Ere  long  the  poet's  garland  might  be  twined. 

From  that  hour  I  was  changed  ;  I  sought  not  now 

To  die  and  leave  no  memory  behind  ; 

I  bade  my  sleeping  intellect  unbind 

Its  listless  pinions,  and  with  lofty  flight 

Soar  'mid  Imagination's  realms  of  light; 

I  taught  my  lyre  with  Fancy's  flame  to  glow, 

And  the   soft  notes  in   loftier  strains  to  flow  ; 

While  gay  ones  marveled    I  could  spend  my  days 

In  painful  study.     They  knew   not  how  strong 

The   impulse   was  ;  'twas  not  mere  love  of  praise 

That  bade  me  seek  the    highly  gifted  song. 

Ah  no !  I  hoped  the  time  would  come  when  he 


8o  fOEMS. 

Would  listen  to  my  melancholy  lays  : 

I  hoped  that  he,  so  loved  though  lost,  would  see, 

Gladly,  some  future  day,  my  humble   name 

Placed  high  upon  the  glorious  lists  of  fame, 

And  that  "the  sweet  surprise  of  sudden  joy" 

Would  fill  his  generous  heart,  when  he  beheld 

The  reckless  girl,  whom  he  so   long  had   held 

To  be  the  sport  of  levity,  the  toy 

Of  wayward  feeling,  teach  her  soaring  soul 

To  spurn  the  fetters  of  the  world's  control  ; 

And  with  the  pride  of  genius  bear  away 

Upon  her  woman's  brow  the  deathless  bay. 

Were  these  hopes  blighted  ? 

Since  I  first  saw  him  five  long  years  have  past, 
And   I   am  dying  ;  yet  'tis   not  the  hand 
Of  grief  that  o'er  my  brow  this  shade  has  cast : 
I  long  have  ceased  to  weep  ;  an  icy  band 
Seems  drawn  about  my  heart ;  I  cannot  weep, 
But  now  upon  my  lone  couch  I  could  lie 
As  calmly  as  an  infant  turns  to  sleep 
Upon  his  gentle  mother's  breast  —  and  die. 


THE  SHEPHERD  BOY.  81 


THE   SHEPHERD  BOY. 

"  Ma  pur  si  aspre  vie,  ne  si  selvagge 
Cercir  non  so  ch'  Amor  non  venga  sempre 
Ragionando  con  meco  ed  io  con  lui.'; 

Petrarca. 

]  E  was  a  slender  boy ;  his  coal  black  hair 
Hung  in  thick  masses  o'er  his  brow  so  fair. 
His  cheek  was  pale  and  sunken,  and  the  light 
Of  his  dark  eye  seemed  as  it  had  been  bright, 
Though  now  its  flashing  glance  was  quenched  in  tears, 
And  grief  seemed  preying  on  his  early  years. 
O'erspent  with  toil  he  stood  ;  his  native  land 
Lay  far  beyond  the  ken  of  that  low  vale 
Whose  gentle  breezes  now  his  hot  cheek  fanned  ; 
And  when  he  strove  to  tell  his  simple  tale, 
It  was  in  broken  accents,  but  with  tone 
Sweet  as  love's  whisper  :  he  was  all  alone 
In  the  wide  world,  and  now  he  sought  a  home 
Where  coldness  or  unkindness  could  not  come. 

Four  changeful  seasons  now  had  rolled  away 
Since  first  Celesto  dwelt  within  that  vale, 
An  humble  shepherd  boy,  and  yet  no  ray 
Of  joy  e'er  visited  his  cheek  so  pale. 
He  shunned  the  crowd  of  gay  ones  that  were  met 
Upon  the  green  at  summer  eve  ;  nor  yet 
Did  he  e'er  seek  to  win  a  maiden's  smile  : 
It  seemed  that  nought  on  earth  had  power  to  'guile 
His  wretchedness.     He  loved  alone   to  sit 
And    watch  the  bright  and  various  clouds  that  flit 
6 


82  POEMS. 

Across  the   sunset   sky,   or  stretched  beneath 
The   fragrant  orange  groves,  to  list  the  breath 
Of  Zephyr  sweeping  o'er  the  leaves   that  sigh 
In  answer  and  return  sweet  melody. 
Once,   and  once  only,    did   the  sad  boy  quit 
His  lonely   haunts  and  join  the  festive  throng  ; 
And  then  he  seized  the  light  guitar  and  wove, 
In  broken    strains,   a  melancholy  song, 
Breathing  of  blighted  hope  and  hapless  love  :  — 

They  called  her  fair  ;  and   she  oft  had   heard 
The  voice  of  song  in   the  moon-lit  grove  ; 

But  O  !   how  wildly  her  pulses   stirred 

When  first  she  bent  to   the  voice  of  love  ! 

Like  heaven's  sweet  breath  o'er  the  wind  god's  lyre, 
It  woke   its   tones  in   her  guileless   heart  ; 

But  scarcely  can  heaven   itself  inspire 

Such  joy  as  dwells  in  love's  witching  art. 

To  him  who  wakened  each  sleeping  string 
She  gave   her  heart  ;  but  be  this  the  token 

How  well  he  valued  the  fragile  thing,  — 

The  music  has  ceased !   the    heart  is    broken ! 

There   was   a  young,    fair  girl   with   sunny   brow, 
And   cheek  where   smiles  were   ever    wont  to  glow, 
The  gayest  'mid  the  gay  ones,  but  her  eye 
Lost  its  bright  gladness,  and   despondency 
Marked  her  once  laughing  face  ;  her   faded  cheek 
Was   pale,  save  when  she  heard  Celeste's  name, 


THE  SHEPHERD  BOY.  83 

And   then  quick  deepening  blushes  o'er  it  came  — 

Those   tell-tales  that  a  maiden's   fondness  speak. 

The  boy  knew  that   she  loved   him,  but  he  felt 

That  none   would   love    him    long;   for  grief  had    d.vdi 

Within  his  heart  until    it  wore   away 

His  life.     Although  his  eye  and  cheek  grew  brighl, 

Yet  'twas   the  soul's  last  effort  to  give  light 

And  beauty  to  the  wasting  frame's  decay, 

And  steal  from   death  part  of  its    agony. 

Soon,  very  soon,   the  boy  knew  he  must  die, 

And   then  he   sought  the  pale  girl,   and  unrolled 

The  tablets  of  sad  memory  ;  then  he  told 

His  mournful  tale.     From  that  time,  though  the  trace 

Of  tears  was  often  left  on  Annette's  face, 

Yet  was  her  spirit  calm. 

At  length,  one  morn, 

In  that  bright  season  when  earth  seems  new  born, 
She  sought  the  spot  Celesto  loved  to  tread, 
And  there  she  saw  the  fair  boy  lying- —  dead  ! 
They  came  to  robe  him  in  funereal  vest, 
And  then  they  found  a  maiden's  snowy  breast 
Beneath  the  shepherd's  coat.     The  imaged  form 
Of  one  whose  eye  possessed  the  serpent's  charm, 
Hung  from  her  neck — a  dark-browed  cavalier. 
They  sought  from  sad  Annette  the  tale  to  hear, 
But  she  was  silent :  thus  by  all  unknown 
The  hapless  maiden  lies.     A  solitary  stone, 
Graved  with  the  name  Celesta,  marks  her  tomb, 
The  only  relic  of  her  mournful  doom. 


84  POEMS. 

CLARA. 

"  You  bear  a  gentle  mind,  and  heavenly  blessings 
Follow  such  creatures." 

Henry   VIII. 

[HE  had  sprung  up  like  a  sweet  wild  flower,  hid 
From  common  eyes,  in  some  lone  dell,  amid 
The  light  and  clews   of  heaven ;  and   ne'er  was 
found 

A  purer  bud  on  earth's  unhallowed   ground. 

Her  face  was  fair,  but  the  admiring  eye 

Loved  less  its  beauty  than  its  purity  ; 

No  cloud  e'er  darkened  o'er  that  placid  brow  ; 

No  care  e'er  dimmed  her  bright  smile's  sunny  glow  ; 

A  gentle  heart  that  ne'er  had  dreamed  of  sin- 

Or  suffering,  shone  her  dove-like   eyes  within  ; 

And  the  high  hope  that  with  such  calm  joy  stirs 

The  trusting  soul  —  the  Christian's  hope  —  was  hers  : 

Twas  this  that  gave  such  sweetness  to  a  mien 

So  softly  gay,  so  peaceful  and  serene  ; 

Calm  without  apathy,  as  woman  mild, 

Yet  innocent  and  playful  as  a  child. 

But  in  her  heart  there  was  one  unbreathed  thought 
With  all  a  woman's  holiest  fondness  fraught. 
Here  was  not  wild,  fierce  passion,  such  as  glows 
In  untamed  hearts,  but  the  calm  love  that  grows 
Within  the  soul  like  an  expanding  flower, 
Breathing  its  perfume  o'er  each  passing   hour : 
From  infancy  it  grew.     The  graceful  boy 
To  whose  embrace  she  clung  with  childish  joy, 


CLARA.  85 

And  on  whose  breast  her  head  had  oft  reposed 
When  weariness  her  infant  eyes   had  closed, 
Was  still  as  dear  to  her  young   bosom  now, 
Though  time  had  written  man  upon  his  brow. 
There  was  no  shame  in  such  a  love  concealed 
In  her  heart's  quiet  depths,  or  but  revealed 
By  the  slight  tremor  or  the  blush  that  came 
O'er  cheek  and  bosom  when  she  heard  his  name. 

And  did  not  Henry  look  with  loving  eyes 

On  the  fair  orphan  who  so  tenderly 

Cherished  his  image  ?      Long   he  vainly  strove 

To  check  the  feeling  he  dared  not  call  love  ; 

He  thought  of  earlier  days  when  she  had  smiled 

In  his  encircling  arms,  a  reckless  child  ; 

Could  she  forget  the  difference  in  their  years 

And  listen  to  a  lover's  hopes  and  fears 

From  one  so  much  her  elder?      He  might  claim 

A  sister's  tenderness  ;    but  the  pure  flame 

Of  deep  and  deathless  love  could  never  be 

Kindled  by  him  in   its  intensity. 

Thus  deemed  he  in  his  hopelessness  ;  but  vain 

His  efforts  to  repress  the    thrilling  pain 

That  filled  his  heart,  while  thinking  of  the  hour 

When  he  should  see  his  loved  and  cherished  flower 

Breathing  its  fragrance  in  another's  bower. 

One  balmy  summer  eve,  with  him  she  roved 

Through  many  a  greenwood  haunt  they  long  had  loved  ; 

When  as  they  gazed  upon  the  glorious  west, 

Dark  clouds  obscured  the  bright  sun's  glowing  crest; 


86  POEMS. 

And  through  the  forest  trees  the  wind's  wild  cry 

Rang  as  of  some  strong  man  in  agony. 

A  storm  was  coming,  and,  while  pale  with  fear, 

She  clung  to  him,  his  own  proud  castle  near 

Offered  them  shelter  ;   in  his  arms  he  bore 

The  maiden  to  those  halls  oft  trod  before 

In  childhood's  day ;  and  while  the  tempest's  strife 

Blackened  the  scene  so  late  with  gladness  rife, 

His  heart  was  filled  with  joy  ;  for  maiden  pride 

Was  hushed  by  fear,  and  Clara  dared  to  hide 

Her  face  upon  his  breast,  while  the  red  fire 

Flashed  from  dark  clouds  careering  in  their  ire 

Like  angry  spirits  ;   ere  an  hour  had   past, 

The  storm  was  spent,  and  its  terrific  blast 

Hushed  into  stillness  ;  but  before  they  turned 

To  leave  the  spot,  the  restless-  thoughts  that  burned 

In  Henry's  breast  were  breathed  o'er  Clara's  cheek, 

And  silence  answered  more  than  words  could  speak. 

And  they  were  wed.    O,  gentle  Love,  how  dear 
Is  thy  sweet  influence  when  thou  dost  rear 
Amid  our  household  gods  thy  sacred  shrine, 
And  givest  thy  torch  upon  our  hearths  to  shine, 
Folding  in  calm  repose  thy  radiant  wings, 
And  gathering  round  our  homes  earth's  purest,  loveliest 
things  ! 


THE  LONELY  ONE.  87 

THE    LONELY    ONE. 

''  What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar? 
The  heart  bleeds  longest,  and  but  heals  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it ;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquished,  bear 
Silence  but  not  submission." 

Childe  Harold. 

HERS  was  not  such  love  as  worldings   feel  ; 
But  an  intense  and  passionate  devotion, 
Pure  as  an  infant  thought,  was  in  her  heart. 
Yet  she  had  none  of  woman's  charms  ;  the  low 
And  gentle  voice,  the  full  bright  lip,   the  eye 
All  light  and  beauty,  —  these  were  not  for  her. 
But  on  her  spirit  genius  poured  its  rays, 
And  in  her  eye  the  pride  of  intellect 
Was  visibly  enthroned  ;  yet  proved  she  not 
Herself  a  mere,  mere  woman,  when  she  gave 
Her  heart  to  man's  control  ?    No,  he  was   one 
Whom  not  to  love  had  almost  been  a  crime : 
It  seemed  that  Heaven  had  formed  him  to  be  loved 
E'en  as  itself  was  worshipped  :  well  did  she 
Obey  its  will  ;    he  was  the  life,  the  soul 
Of  her  existence  ;  and  she  poured  forth  all 
The  richest  fullness  of  her  untouched  heart 
As  incense  on  his  shrine,  e'en  though  she  knew 
Its   sweetness  would  be  wasted.     Hopelessly 
She  gave  it ;  for  she  knew  he  looked  on  her 
With  kindness,  friendship,  everything  but  love. 
And  yet  she  murmured  not ;    could  she  repine 
When  she  received  a  brother's  tenderness  ? 
She  turned  from  scenes  of  gayety  :  for  there 


88  POEMS. 

She  could  not  think  of  him  ;    and  gifted  ones 
Oft  sought  her  love  as  'twere  a  precious  thing. 
But  how  could  one  who  worshipped  the  bright  sun, 
Pay  the  same  homage  to  the  meaner  stars  ? 
She  gave  herself  to  loneliness  ;  a  life 
Of  self-devotion  to  her  hopeless  love 
Was  dearer  to  her  than  all  earthly  joy. 

At  length  the  hour  she  long  had  looked  for  came, 

And  he  was  wed.     She  knew  the  very  hour 

That  gave  him  to  another.     It  were  vain 

To  paint  the  fearful  conflict  of  her  heart ; 

She  knew  he  would  be  wretched  if  he  dreamed 

Of  her  deep  sorrow ;  and  this  gave  her  strength 

To  conquer  woman's  weakness.     When  she  next 

Beheld  him  he  was  near  his  youthful  bride  : 

Calmly  she  met  his  proffered  hand,  and  looked 

With  smiles  on  her  bright  face,  and  though  her  cheek 

Was  deadly  pale,  yet  her  voice  faltered  not. 

Her  course  through  life  was  marked  out  by  the  hand 

Of  changeless  destiny  ;  her  days  were  past 

In  painful  study  ;  she  explored  the  paths 

Of  science  with  a  sad  delight ;  for  one 

Faint  hope  yet  lingered,  that,  in  after  years, 

When  men  should  breathe  her  name  in  tones  of  praise, 

He  would  remember  her  with  thoughts  of  pride. 

Yet  she  was  not  unhappy  ;  she  had  taught 

His  wife  to  love  her,  and  the  innocent  face 

Of  his  fair  child  oft  rested  on  her  heart, 

While  its  soft  arms  were  twined  about  her   neck 

With  all  an  infant's  fondness. 


THE  LONELY  ONE.  89 

Years  passed  on, 

And  long  ere  she  had  reached  life's  middle  course, 
Sorrow  amid  the  lone  one's  dark  brown  locks 
Had  mingled  silver,  while  her  sunken  cheek 
And  wasted  figure  told  a  mournful  tale 
Of  the  heart's  struggle.     Well  had  she  subdued 
Each  rebel  thought ;  her  eye  no  longer  quailed 
In  anguish  to  behold  his  tenderness 
Bestowed  upon  another  ;  for  she  gave 
To  his  fair  child  the  fullness  of  that  love 
She  dared  not  yield  to  him.     Alas  !  alas  ! 
And  did  she  think  the  heart  would  thus  be  swayed 
E'en  as  she  listed  ;  that  her  will  could  change 
The  course  of  its  affections  ?  vain  deceit ! 
E'en  as  the  breath  of  winter,  while  it  binds 
The  mountain  torrent  in  its  icy  chains, 
Checks  not  the  current  which  still  rushes  on 
Beneath  its  frozen  surface,  so  the  strong, 
Resistless  energy  of  mind  may  stay 
The  outward  struggles  of  the  restless  soul, 
But  cannot  reach  its  inmost  depths,  where   still 
The  waves  of  passion  moan.     Too  soon  she  knew 
How  much  she  was  deceived.     Death  came,  but  not 
To  her  who  waited  him  ;   the  grief-worn  frame 
Was  all  too  mean  a  prey  for  him ;   he  seized 
The  gentle  wife  and  mother ;  she  whose  life 
Had  been  a  fairy  tale. 

No  selfish  thought 

Was  in  the  bosom  of  the  lonely  one, 
As,  bending  o'er  the  bed  of  death,  she  wept, 


90  POEMS. 

Mingling  her  tears  with  his  ;  but  when  she  found 

That  still  he  sought  for  comfort  in  her  kindness, 

E'en  when  the  smile  revisited  his  lip, 

What  marvel  if  within  her  breast  awoke 

Again  the  sweet  delusions  of  young  hope. 

The  passionate  feelings  of  his  youth  were  gone  ; 

And  now  he  turned  with  tranquil  tenderness 

To  her  affection,  e'en  as  one  will  pause, 

Amid  the  weary  vanities  of  life, 

To  hear  some  half- forgotten  melody 

That  charmed  his  childish  hours ;  but  ah  !  the  heart 

Which  bore  so  well  with  sorrow  could  not  brook 

The  fullness  of  such  joy  ;  and  as  the  flower 

May  bide  the  pelting  of  the  storm,  to  die 

Beneath  the  very  sun  that  gave  it  life, 

Thus  did  she  wither.     But  how  did  she  shrink 

To  meet  the  death  she  once  had  sought  ;   how  weep 

To  check  again  the  love  but  half  subdued  ? 

Thus  months  and  weeks  passed  onward,  until  he 

Who,  in  her  hour  of  youth  and  bloom,  had  turned 

In  coldness  from  her  love,  now  sought  for  it 

As  'twere  his  very  being.     Who  can  speak 

The  anguish  of  her  spirit,  as  with  sick 

And  swelling  heart  she  gasped :  "  It  is  too  late  !-" 

As  the  worn  traveller  amid  the  wilds 

Of  burning  Araby,  o'erspent  with  toil, 

Falls  ere  he  reach  the  brink  of  that  pure  wave 

Which  proffers  life  to  his  parched  lip,    thus  she 

Found  joy  within  her  grasp  but  when  she  knew 

It  was  her  last,  her  dying  hour.     She  died  — 


AN  HOUR   OF  SADNESS.  91 

Yet  as  a  day  of  storms  will  ofttimes  sink 
With  a  rich  burst  of  sunlight  at  its  close, 
Thus  did  the  rays  of  happiness  illume 
Her  parting  spirit. 


AN    HOUR    OF   SADNESS. 

'M  weary  of  this  false  and  hollow  world  ! 
Its  brightest  smile   is  but  the  fickle  light 
That  leads  the  'wildered  traveller  astray  ; 
Its  dearest  joys  are  but  vain  morning  dreams  ; 
Its  very  mirth  is  madness  ;  and  the  man 
Who  seems  most  blest,  is  only  he  who  best 
Can  feign,  and  'neath  a  smiling  brow  conceal 
The  bosom's  secret  anguish.     There  is  nought 
On  earth  but  sorrow.     Where  can  mortals  look 
For  happiness  or  peace  ?    Shall  we  seek  fame, 
Ambition,  knowledge,  love  ?     Alas  !  in  vain. 
The  laurel  wreath  is  stained  with  human  blood, 
Or  blighted  by  the  feverish  breath  of  him 
Who  won  it  by  the  sacrifice  of  health. 
What  can  ambition  give  ?     Vain  man  may  tread 
Upon  the  neck  of  thousands,  and  become 
A  god  among  the  nations,  yet  his  deeds 
Will  be  forgotten.     Knowledge,  too,  is  but 
The  painful  guerdon  of  protracted  toil. 
And  thou,    Love!    though  thine  altar  is  in  heaven, 
Thy  flame  is  burning  in  the  hearts  of  those 


92  POEMS. 

That  worship  thee  on  earth.     O   it  is  sad 

That  aught  so  sweet  should  bring  such  desolation  — 

That  woman,  too,  that  gentle,  timid  woman 

Should  oft'nest  be  the  victim.'    When    success 

Has  crowned  thy  votaries,  they  have  found  the  prize 

Scarce  worth  the  pain  and  anguish  that  it  cost  ; 

Or,  if  unkindly  early  hope  is  crost, 

The  end  is  death  or  madness. 

All,  all  is  sorrow  !     Ask  the   aged  man 

By  his  enjoyments  to  compute  his  years  ; 

Will  he  then  say  that  he  can  count  three-score  ? 

O  !    happy  they  who  die  ere  they  awake 

From  their  illusive  dream  of  joy.     Men  weep 

Upon  the  early  tomb  which  haply  saved 

Its  tenant  from  a  thousand  living  deaths  ; 

And  happy  they  whom  the  first  grief  can  kill  — 

Who  are  not  doomed  to  drag  the  lengthened  chain 

Of  wearisome  existence  —  but  to  live 

Among  the  selfish  beings  of  this  earth, 

As  one  whose  thoughts  dwell  elsewhere  —  to  endure 

The  secret  workings  of  a  restless  spirit 

That  once  aspired  to  higher,  nobler  things  ; 

To  bear  the  desolation  of  a  heart 

Broken  by  early  suffering,  and  to  feel 

That  though  we  would  not  live,  we  cannot  die  ! 

This,  this  is  sorrow,  yet  it  may  be   borne. 

For  many  painful  years,  e'en  in  life's  spring 

It  may  have  been  endured,  and  yet  the  lip 

May  wear  a  smile.     But  'tis  a  bitter  mirth 

That  seems  to  mock  itself;  the  eye  may   beam, 

The  cheek  still  brightly  glow,  but  on  the  brow 


TO  FRANCESCA.  93 

Are  furrows  which  the  hand  of  Time  ne'er  planted  — 
Traces  of  scathing  grief.     And  this  is  life  ! 
This  is  the  life  to  which  fond  man  will  cling 
And  spend  his  years  in  toil,  yet  vainly  strive 
'Gainst   friendly   Death.     O    doom    me   not,  sweet 

Heaven, 

To  waste,  Prometheus-like,  away,  but  grant 
To  me  thy  kindliest  boon  —  an  early  grave  ! 


TO    FRANCESCA. 

WHO  thy  brow's  sweet  pensiveness   can  view, 
Thy  blue  eye's  deep  and  thrill  ing  tenderness, 
Thy  witching  mouth,  thy  young  cheek's  tender 

hue, 
Nor  feel  emotions  he  may  not  express. 

Thine  is  not  brilliant  beauty ;  there  may  be 
Forms  which  can  boast  of  more  majestic  grace 

And  brighter  cheeks,  but  none  can  ever  see 
Such  pure,  pale  softness  in  another  face. 

It  is  the  mind  that  in  each  feature  gleams, 
The  feeling  that  each  gentle  glance  displays, 

The  heart  as  pure  as  infancy's  young   dreams,— 
They  are  more  sweet  than  beauty's  brightest  rays. 

Yet  I  have  seen  that  brow  with  grief  o'ercast, 

And  those  eyes  dimmed  with  sorrow's  bitter   tears  — 


94  POEMS. 

Ah  !  even  from  thee  is  pleasure  fleeting  fast  ? 
Art  thou,  too,  doomed  to  sad  and  lonely  years  ? 

O !  may  the  task  to  soothe  thy  woes  be  mine  ; 

And  though  the  brilliant  flowers  of  joy  be  dead, 
Yet  some  pale  buds  of  hope  I  yet  may  twine, 

Their  gentle  fragrance  o'er  thy  heart  to  shed. 


LOVE. 

love,  what  is  it  ?     Tis  to  shed 
Fond  woman's  little  all  of  light 
On  rainbow  clouds,  whose  tints  are  fled 
Ere  scarce  they  meet  the  raptured  sight ; 
To  yield  her  youthful  heart  to  one, 
To  live  on  earth  for  him  alone, 
And  feel  'twere  almost  grief  to  bear 
E'en  bliss  unless  he,  too,  might  share. 

To  give  to  one  her  every  thought, 

And  feel  that  even  though  bereft 
Of  every  joy  on  earth,  'twere  nought, 

So  the  wide  storm  that  dear  one  left  ; 
To  know  that  she  to  him  has  given 

The  worship  which  was  due  to  Heaven  — 
Yet  in  his  love  to  find  such  bliss 

She  asks  no  other  heaven  than  this. 


LOVE.  95 

Vain  man  may  talk  of  woman's  guile, 

And  curse  the  hour  he  learned  to  prize 
The  magic  of  her  sunny  smile, 

And  drink  the  light  of  her  sweet  eyes. 
But  timid  woman  may  not  speak 

The  wrongs  that  pale  her  tender  cheek  ; 
No,  deep  within  her  heart  they  lie  — 

What  matters  it  ?   she   can  but  die. 

Full  many  a  cheek  has  lost  its  bloom, 

And  many  a  brilliant  eye  grown  dim  ; 
Man  heeds  it  not  —  the  silent  tomb 

Soon  shrouds  the  heart  that  broke  for  him. 
When  first  he  was  allowed  to  sip 

The  honey-dew  from  woman's  lip, 
And  knew  that  it  was  all  his  own, 

Its  greatest  charm  for  him  was  gone. 

O  woman's  love  is  a  gentle  light, 

That  sheds  its  beams  on  hope's  young  bowers, 
Man's  is  the  fell  sirocco's  blight, 

That  blasts  the  fairest,  sweetest  flowers  ; 
Yet,  though  the  buds  of  hope  are  gone, 

That  steady  light  will  still  shine  on, 
Shine  on,  despite  of  grief  and  gloom, 

Like  sunbeams  o'er  a  mouldering  tomb. 


9 6  TO    THE  EVEA'IXG  STAR. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

"  A  single  star 

Is  rising  in  the  east,  and  from  afar 
Sheds  a  most  tremulous  lustre  ;  silent  night 
Doth  wear  it  like  a  jewel  on  her  brow." 

Barry  Cornwall. 
"  ()  what  a  vision  were  the  stars 
When  first  I  saw  them  burn  on  high." 

Mior;. 

ALE,  melancholy  star  !  that  pourest  thy  beams 
So  mildly  on  my  brow,  pure  as  the  lear 
A  pitying  angel  sheds  o'er  earthly  sorrow, 
I  love  to  sit  beneath  thy  light,  and  yield 
My  heart  to  its  strange  musings,  wayward  dreams 
Of  things  inscrutable,  and  searching  thoughts 
That  would  aspire  to  dwell  in  yon  high  sphere. 
I  love  to  think  that  thou  art  a  bright  world 
Where  bliss  and  beauty  dwell  —  where  never  sin 
Has  entered  to  destroy  the  perfect  joys 
Of  its  pure,  holy  habitants.     'Tis  sweet 
To  fancy  such  a  quiet,  peaceful  home 
Of  innocence,  and  purity,  and  love. 
There  the  first  sire  still  dwells  with  all  his  race, 
From  his  loved  eldest-born  to  the  sweet  babe 
Of  yesterday  ;  there  gentle  maids  are  seen, 
Fair  as  the  sun,  with  all  that  tenderness 
So  sweet  in  woman  ;  and  soft  eyes  that  beam 
The  fondest  love,  but  freed  from  passion's  stain. 
There  all  have  high  communion  with  their  God, 
And  though  the  fruit  of  knowledge  is  not  plucked, 
Yet  doth  its  fragrance  breathe  on  all  around. 


TO    THE  EVENING  STAR.  97 

O  !  what  can  knowledge  give,  to  recompense 
The  happy  ignorance  it  cost  ?     Man   gave 
His  heaven  to  gain  it ;  what  was  his  reward  ? 
Deep,  lasting   misery ! 

Sweet  star  !  can  those  in  thy  bright  sphere  behold 
Our  fallen  world  ?  do  they  not  weep  to  view 
Our  blighting  sorrows?  and  do  they  not  veil 
Their  brows  in  shame,  to  see  Heaven's  choicest  gifts 
Profaned  and  trampled  by  our  maddening  passions  ? 
Surely  this  world  is  now  as  beautiful 
As  'twas  in  earliest  prime  :  the  earth  still  blooms 
With  flowers  and  brilliant  verdure  ;  the  dark  trees 
Are  thick  with  foil  age,  and  the  mountains  tower 
In  proud  sublimity  ;  the  waters  glide 
All  smoothly  'mid  the  green,  enameled  mead, 
Or  dash  o'er  broken  cliffs,  flinging  their  spray 
In  high  fantastic  whirls.     Surely  'tis  fair 
As  it  could  be  before  the  wasting  flood 
Had  whelmed  it.     Let  us  forth  and  gaze  upon 
The  face  of  nature.     All  is  peaceful  now, 
Yet  man  will  tread  there  too ;  cities  will  rise 
Where  now  the  wild  bird  sings ;  thousands  will  dwell 
Where  all  is  loneliness  ;  but  will  it  be 
More  beautiful  ?    No  ;  where  the  wild  flowers  spring, 
Where  nought  but  the  bird's  note  is  heard,  we  may 
Find  friends  in  every  leaf;  each  simple  bud 
Speaks  to  the  heart  and  fills  it  with  the  sweet, 
Soft  tenderness  of  childhood  ;  but  vain  man 
Makes  it  a  peopled  wilderness :  the  blight 
Of  disappointment  and  distrust  is  found 
7 


8  POEMS. 

Wherever  man  has  made  his  troubled  home  ; 
And  the  most  fearful  desert  is  the  spot 
Where  he  best  loves  to  dwell. 

O,  let  me  hope,  while  gazing  on  thy  light, 

Sweet  star,  that  yet  a  peaceful  home  is  left 

For  those  sad  spirits  who  have  found  this  world 

All  sin  and  sorrow.     Haply  in  thy  sphere 

I  yet  may  dwell,  when  cleansed  from  all  the  stains 

Of  passions  that  too  darkly  dwell  within 

This  throbbing  heart.     O  !  had  I  early  died, 

I  might  have  been  a  pure  and  sinless  child 

In  some  sweet  planet ;  and  my  only  toil, 

To  light  my  censer  by  the  sun's  bright  rays, 

And  fling  its  fire  forever  towards  the  throne 

Of  the  Eternal  One. 


TO  FANCY. 

"  Fancy,  my  internal  sight." 

Milton. 

Fancy  !  I  have  been  thy  favored  child 
From  earliest  infancy  ;  and  thou  wert  wont 
To  show  me  thy  bright  imagery,  ere  yet 
My  young  lips  could  frame  language  to  describe 
The  fair  but  fleeting  shadows :  thou  hast   nursed 
Those  warm  and  ardent  feelings  nature  gave  ; 
And  though  'tis  true  that  thou  hast  taught  my  heart 
To  heave  the  quickened  throb  of  deeper  anguish 


TO  FANCY.  99 

Than  cold  ones  e'er  can  feel,  yet  thou  hast  given 

Joys  they  can  never  know.     I  love  to  see 

The  setting  sun  resting  his  broad  bright  rim 

Upon  the  golden  wave,  as  lingering  there 

To  bid  the  world  farewell ;  and  when  he  sinks, 

To  watch  the  thousand  summer  clouds  he  leaves 

Of  strange  fantastic  shape  and  varied  hue. 

Then  is  thine  hour,  bright  Fancy  —  then  is  felt 

Thy  softest,  sweetest  influence  o'er  the   heart. 

O !  when  I  gaze  upon  th'  unclouded  heaven 

Studded  with  gems  of  brilliancy,  my  soul 

Forgets  the  lapse  of  time,  and  doth  recall 

The  fantasies  so  proud  and  beautiful 

Of  ancient  times  :  the  stars  were  then  in  truth 

"The  poetry  of  heaven,"  and  had  high  power 

O'er  mortal  fate.     'Tis  sad  that  those  sweet  dreams 

Are  now  denied  us.     O,  how  much  more  bliss 

Lies  in  the  legend  of  our  infant  years, 

Than  in  the  sad  reality  we  learn ! 

Many  would  deem  me  weak  ;  but  I  have  gazed 
Upon  the  fairy  clouds  and  pictured  there 
Familiar  forms  and  faces  ;  and  have  felt 
That  I  could  almost  weep  to  see  them  fade, 
So  like  a  presage  of  the  transient  date 
Of  all  life's  changeful  joys.     It  may  be  vain 
To  yield  to  these  impressions  ;  but  what  heart 
Could  scorn  such  gentle  dreams  in  early  youth. 

I  love  to  look  upon  the  clouded  sky, 

When  the  fierce  forked  lightning  flashes  bright, 


:oo  POEMS. 

And  the  deep  roar  of  heaven's  artillery 

Sounds  fearfully  ;  and  I  can  calmly  view 

The  strife  of  elements,  and    fancy  then 

I  hear  the  shouts  of  proud  rebellious  spirits 

Storming  the  towers  and  battlements  of  heaven. 

O,  what  a  depth  of  feeling  lies  within 

The  full,  the  o'erfraught  heart  in  such  an  hour ! 

And  this,  too,  is  thine  hour,  bright  Fancy,  this 

Thy  proudest,  mightiest  power.     In  the  sweet  calm 

Of  evening,  thou  dost  come  with  whispers  bland, 

And  all  its  gentleness ;  but  when  the  storm 

Is  raging  thou  dost  speak  in  majesty, 

And  the  full  heart  is  lifted  to  the  heavens, 

While  we  can  feel  there  yet  is  high  communion 

Between  fallen  man  and  pure  angelic  natures. 

Could  but  the  skeptic  feel  the  thrilling   power 

Of  chastened  Fancy  at  a  time  like  this, 

Surely  the  blush  of  shame  would  tinge  his  cheek. 

Would  not  the  deep  emotions  of  his  soul 

Prove  that  high  soul  immortal  ?     Can  it  be 

That  we  should  have  such  glimpses  of  a  light 

Not  of  this  world,  if  we  are  ne'er  to  see 

The  fullness  of  its  glory?  Can  the  man 

Who  feels  the  restless  workings  of  a  mind 

Aspiring  after  knowledge,  think  that  earth 

Can  limit  the  expansion  of  his  soul  ? 

No  ;  he  must  deem  that  there  will  come  a  time 

When  all  shall  be  unfolded.     Tis  a  proud, 

An  elevating  thought.     O,  who  would  doubt? 


MIDNIGHT.  1 01 


MIDNIGHT. 

I  HE  moon  is  riding  high  in  the  blue  heavens, 
And  like  a  delicate  drapery  the  clouds 
Hang  o'er  the  vast  expanse  ;  the  air  is  calm  ; 
No  voice,  no  sound  is  heard,  save  the  soft  note, 
Far  distant,  of  a  solitary  lute  ; 
All  things  are  hushed  in  that  tranquillity 
Which  speaks  e'en  to  the  worn  and  troubled  heart 
And  bids  its  passions  rest.     How  beautiful 
Is  this  fair  world !     There's  not  a  leaf  that  falls 
Within  the  forest,  not  a  flower  that  springs 
Beneath   our  footsteps,  not  a  twinkling  star 
That  gems  the  brow  of  night,  but  gives  the  heart 
A  lesson  it  should  ne'er  forget,  of  peace 
And  innocence.     Surely  this  world  was  made 
For  pure,  angelic  habitants  ;  the  breath 
Of  heaven,  that  passes  o'er  the  spangled  earth 
And  fills  with  fragrance  every  flower,  was  meant 
To  fan  the  golden  hair  of  such  as  those 
Who  throng  around  the  eternal  throne  with  harps 
Of  thrilling  melody.     Earth  is  too  fair 
To  be  the  scene  of  turbulence  —  the  abode 
Of  pain  and  misery.     O  !   why  will  man 
Transform  thy  gentle  paradise  of  sweets 
To  a  dark  waste  of  sorrow  and  of  sin  ! 


102  POEMS. 


LOVE   SLEEPING. 


OVE   sleeps  !  O  do  not  strive  to  break 
His  slumbers,  he  too  soon  will  wake. 
But  now  all  tranquilly  he    lies, 


And  the  fair  lid  that  shrouds  his  eyes 
Is  like  the  silvery  cloud  when  driven 
Across  the  deep  blue  summer  heaven, 
That  bids  the  sunbeams  shine  less  bright, 
But  cannot  hide  their  glorious  light. 

He  dreams  of  some  ecstatic  bliss, 
His  full,  red  lip  pouts  forth  to  kiss, 
His  brightly  mantling  blushes  speak 
Like  those  upon  the  maiden's  cheek, 
When,  clasped  to  her  fond  lover's  breast, 
The  first  kiss  on  her  lip  is  prest. 

And  on  his  gentle  brow  the  while 

Is  that  sweet  look,  half  frown,  half  smile, 

Like  virgin  coyness  that  reproves 

The  very  tenderness  it  loves  ; 

Now  o'er  his  face  a  calmness  steals  — 

O  !   nothing  such  deep  bliss  reveals  ; 

Joy's  ecstasy  nought  else  can  tell, 

A  smile,  a  sigh  would   break  the  spell. 

But  Love's  bright  visions  cannot  last ; 
E'en  now  they  are  already  past ; 
See,  ere  his  eyelids  yet  unclose, 
Down  his  fair  cheek  the  tear-drop  flows. 


TO   .  103 

Nay,  hush  thee,  foolish  boy,    and  sleep, 
Since  thou  dost  only  wake  to  weep  ; 
Alas  !    thou  seekest  for  rest  in  vain  — 
Once  waked,  Love  cannot  dream   again. 


TO 


[HERE'S  a  cloud  on  the  mountain,  a  mist  on  the 

lake,  — 

Is  not  this  a  warning  the  storm  soon  will  break? 
Though  the  sun  on  the  meadows  is  still  shining  clear, 
Yet  the  wild  winds  are  sighing,  the  tempest  is  near. 

There's  a  shade  on  thy  brow,  and  a  tear  in  thine  eye, 
Seen  through  the  long  lashes  that  over  it  lie  ; 
And  though  on  thy  lip  is  the  bright  beaming  smile, 
Yet  sad  thoughts  are  hid  in  thy  bosom  the  while. 

The  sun's  brilliant  beams  have  dispersed  the  dark  cloud, 
And  no  longer  the  mist  the  lake's  bosom  doth  shroud ; 
O,  thus  let  the  smile  on  thy  lip  ever  glow, 
Till  its  brightness  has  driven  the  shade  from,  thy  brow. 

Aye,  changes  may  pass  over  nature's  sweet  face, 
And  smiles  may  the  gloom  of  the  countenance   chase  ; 
But  when  sorrow  has  long  made  its  home  in  the  heart, 
O,  where  is  the  light  that  can  bid  it  depart  ? 


104  POEMS. 


STANZAS. 

"The  early  grave 
Which  men  weep  Aver,  may  be  meant  to  save." 

Byron. 

'EEP  not  for  those 
Who  sink  within  the  arms  of  death, 
Ere  yet  the  chilling  wintry  breath 
Of  sorrow  o'er  them  blows  ; 
But  weep  for  them  who  here  remain 
The  mournful  heritors  of  pain, 
Condemned  to  see  each  bright  joy  fade, 
And  mark  griefs  melancholy  shade 
Flung  o'er  hope's  fairest  rose. 

Nay,  shed  no  tear 

For  those  who  soundly,  sweetly  sleep ; 
They  heed  not  the  cold  blasts  that  sweep 

Across  their  lowly  bier ; 
But  weep  for  those  who  see  the  cloud 
Of  misery  youth's  bright  heaven  enshroud, 
And  view  the  flowers  that  deck  life's  path 

Fall  dry  and  sear. 

Dread  not  the  tomb ; 
To  those  who  feel  that  youth  survives 
The  joys  that  youthful  fancy  gives, 

It  wears  no  face  of  gloom. 
It  is  a  quiet,  peaceful  home 
For  those  who  through  life's  desert  roam  — 


LIFE.  105 


A  place  for  wearied  ones  to  rest, 
Where  o'er  the  painful,  care-worn  breast 
Spring  flowers  may  bloom. 


LIFE. 

j>HEN  Hope's  fairy  fingers  are  straying 

O'er  the  chords  of  the  youthful  heart, 
And  fancy  in  prospect  displaying 
The  bliss  that  new  years  may  impart ; 
When  sweet  feelings  are  ever  up-springing, 

And  the  pulses  all  joyously  beat ; 
When  each  day  a  new  pleasure  is  bringing, 
O  !  then  indeed  life  is  most  sweet. 

When  the  torch  of  affection  just  lighted, 

Burns  bright  on  the  altar  of  truth, 
Ere  the  cold,  selfish  world  yet  has  blighted 

One  innocent  feeling  of  youth  ; 
When  earth  seems  a  garden  unfading, 

Where  flowers  spring  round  our  glad  feet  ; 
When  no  cloud  our  bright  heaven  is  shading, 

O  !  then  indeed  life  is  most  sweet. 

When  the  cold  breath  of  sorrow  is  sweeping 
O'er  the  chords  of  the  youthful  heart, 

And  the  youthful  eye,  dimmed  with  strange  weeping, 
Sees  the  visions  of  fancy  depart ; 


io6  POEMS. 

When  the  bloom  of  young  feeling  is  dying, 

And  the  heart  throbs  with  passion's  fierce  strife 

When  our  sad  days  are  wasted  in  sighing,  — 
Who  then  can  find  sweetness  in  life  ? 

When  unkindness  or  coldness  has  faded 

The  pure,  hallowed  light  of  true  love, 
And  the  mists  of  the  dark  earth  have  shaded 

The  dreams  that  o'er  young  spirits  move  ; 
When  earth  seems  a  wide  waste  of  sorrow 

No  longer  with  bright  blessings  rife  ; 
When  we  look  but  for  clouds  on  each  morrow, — 

Who  then  can  find  sweetness  in  life  ? 


SONG    OF    THE    FAIRIES. 

HASTE     ye,  haste  to  the  Avis  grove, 
The  home  that  the  fairies  so  dearly  love  ; 
There  a  leaf  never  dies  save  when  others 

are  springing, 

More  beautiful  far,  on  each  slender  spray; 
There  bright-plumaged  birds,  ever  joyously  singing, 
Are  glancing  like  sunbeams  —  away,  haste  away ! 

Since  last  we  met  we  have  wandered  far 

Beneath  the  light  of  each  dewy  star  ; 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  the  viewless  air, 

We  have  basked  in  the  smile  of  maidens  fair ; 

And  sad  ones  have  blessed  the  soothing  touch 

Of  our  odorous  wings  o'er  their  sleepless  couch. 


FRAGMENT.  1 07 

But  still  the  farther  away  we  roam, 

The  dearer  we  love  our  own  sweet  home  ; 

The  eye  of  beauty  is  not  as  bright 

As  the  stars  in  our  queen's  fair  crown  of  light, 

And  'tis  dearer  far  —  O  no  !  there  is  nought 

In  our  own  sweet  shadowy  world  so  fraught 

With  exquisite  joy,  as  'tis  thus  to  stray 

Doing  good  to  all ;  then  away,  away  ! 


FRAGMENT. 

HERE  is  a  something  in  my  heart  that  speaks 
Of  death  !    E'en  in   my  wildest  bursts  of  joy 
That  thought  is  ever  present,  but  not  then 
In  fearfulest  array ;  e'en  as  the  man 
Who  dwells  beside  a  gushing  rivulet, 
Will  seem  to  hear,  when  far  away,  the  sound 
Of  rippling  waters,  so  'tis  blended  with 
My  every  thought.     In  hours  of  tranquilness, 
Fancy  displays  the  green  grass  and  wild  flowers 
Growing  in  rich  luxuriance  o'er  my  grave, 
And  I,  a  blessed  spirit,  hovering  near 
The  gentle  ones  I  love,  unheeding  then 
The  grosser  air  of  earth  ;  for  well  I  know 
That  yon  bright  heaven  would  be  too  sad  a  home 
Were  I  bereft  of  them. 

And  yet  I  sometimes  sigh  for  length  of  days  : 
I  scarce  know  why,  but  when  I  see  the  crowds 
Of  gifted  ones  that  throng  around  the  shrine 
Of  Liberty,  and  bring  their  blooming  bays 


lo8  POEMS. 

To  form  a  garland  for  Columbia's  brow, 

Which  there  may  live  for  ages,  I  could  wish 

I  too  might  add  a  wild  flower.     This  is  vain, 

Nay,  more  than  vain  ;  such  thoughts  should  never  dwell 

Within  the  quiet  depths  of  woman's  heart. 

While  Halleck  wreathes  the  laughing  vine  amid 

The  verdant  oak  leaves  and  the  myrtle  bough, 

And  Bryant  culls  the  lily  and  the  rose 

To  twine  with  the  rich  autumn  leaves,  'tis  vain 

To  dream  a  pale  half-budded  violet 

Could  mingle  with  their  sweets. 


TO 


[S  the  bright  beacon  still  will  glow 
When  summer  billows  gently  flow, 
And  smile  on  the  tumultuous  wave 
When  winds  are  loud  and  tempests  rave, 
So  such  enduring  love  as  mine 
Through  years  of  joy  would  calmly  shine  ; 
But  should  the  world's  rude  storms  arise, 
Then  will  it  glad  thy  weary  eyes  — 
The  one  bright  star  amid  the  gloom, 
The  one  lone  spot  where  hopes  still  bloom. 


WILLIAM   TELL    ON  THE  MOUNTAINS.         109 


WILLIAM  TELL  ON  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

"  Yet,  Freedom  !  yet  thy  banner,  torn  but  flying, 
Streams  like  a  thunder-storm  against  the  wind." 

ChUde  Harold. 

NCE  more  I  breathe  the  mountain  air,  once  more 
I  tread  my  own  free  hills  ;  e'en  as  the  child 
Clings  to  its  mother's  breast,  so  do  I  turn 
To  thee  my  glorious  home.     My  lofty  soul 
Throws  all  its  fetters  off:  in  its  proud  flight, 
'Tis  like  the  new-fledged  eaglet,  whose  strong  wing 
Soars  to  the  sun  it  long  has  gazed  upon 
With  eye  undazzled.     O  !  ye  mighty  race, 
That  stand  like  frowning  giants,  fixed  to  guard 
My  own  proud  land,  why  did  ye  not  hurl  down 
The  thundering  avalanche,  when  at  your  feet 
The  base  usurper  stood  ?  A  touch,  a  breath, 
Nay,  e'en  the  breath  of  prayer,  ere  now  has  brought 
Destruction  on  the  hunter's  head,  and  yet 
The  tyrant  passed  in  safety.     God  of  Heaven  ! 
Where  slept  thy  thunderbolt  ? 

O  !  Liberty, 

Thou  choicest  gift  of  Heaven,  and  wanting  which 
Life  is  as  nothing,  hast  thou  then  forgot 
Thy  native  home  ;  and  must  the  feet  of  slaves 
Pollute  this  glorious  scene  ?     It  cannot  be  ! 
E'en  as  the  smile  of  Heaven  can  pierce  the  depths 
Of  these  dark  caves,  and  bid  the  wild  flowers  bloom 


no  POEMS. 

In  spots  where  man  has  never  dared  to  tread, 

So  thy  sweet  influence  still   is   seen  amid 

These   beetling   cliffs :   some  hearts   yet   beat   for   thee 

And   bow  alone   to  Heaven :   thy  spirit   lives, 

Aye,   and  shall,    when  e'en   the   very   name 

Of  tyrant   is   forgot.     Lo  !   while  I  gaze 

Upon  the  mist  that   wreathes  yon  mountain's   brow, 

The  sunbeam    touches  it,   and   it  becomes 

A   crown  of  glory   on   his   hoary   head. 

O  !  is  not   this    a   presage   of  the   dawn 

Of  freedom    o'er   the   world  ?     Hear  me,  thou  bright 

And  beaming  Heaven  !  while  kneeling  thus,   I   swear 

To  live  for  Freedom,    or   with  her   to   die. 


WILLIAM  TELL  IN  CHAINS.1 

>HAT !  does   he  think  that  bonds  can  chain  the 

mind  ? 

That  dungeon  air  can  taint  the  spotless  soul  ? 
Fond  fool  !  let  Gesler  wear  his  princely   pomp 
If  he  would  know  the  weight  of  real  chains  ; 
And  learn  that  to  the  base  and  crouching  slave 
All  earth  is  one  wide  prison  house.     In  vain 
They  shut  me  from  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  ; 
They  cannot  dim  the  inward  ray  that  sheds 
Such  brightness  on  my  spirit.     I  have  dwelt 

1  The  first  of  these  two  pieces  was  written  after  seeing  Macready's  personation  of 
William  Tell  ;  and  the  second  after  seeing  Inman's  admirable  picture  of  that  dis 
tinguished  actor  as  William  Tell  in  chains. 


LINES.  1 1 1 

Upon  the  lofty  mountain  tops,   and  held 

High  converse  with  the  elements,  and  gazed 

Upon  the  sun,  until  his  very  beams 

Became  as  'twere  a  language  ;   shall  I  seek 

To  win  the  smile  of  princes  ?   I  have  watched 

The  storm-clouds  gather  round  the  snow-capped  cliff, 

And,  in  the    rolling  thunder,  heard  the  threat 

Of  an  offended  God  ;   shall  I  bow  down 

Before  the  wrath  of  tyrants  ?      Never,  never  ! 

When  thou  canst  tame  the  eagle  down  to  wear 

The  jesses  of  the  falcon,  or  canst  yoke 

The  lion  to  the  humble  steer,  then  hope, 

Proud  Gesler,  to  behold  the  brow  of  Tell 

Bending  before  thy  footstool. 


LINES 

ON  HEARING  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  A  VERY  BEAUTIFUL 
WOMAN  THREE  WEEKS  AFTER  HAVING  MET  HER  AT  A 
BALL. 

ER  dark,  bright  glances  seemed  to  fall 
With  equal  tenderness  on  all, 
And  shed  such  lustre  o'er  her  cheek 
As  when  the  setting   sunbeams  break 
An  instant  from  the  evening  cloud 
That  seeks  its  crimson  light  to  shroud, 
And  sheds  upon  the  mountain  snow 
A  bright  and  rosy  tinted  glow. 


112  POEMS. 

Her  high,  white  forehead  gave  to  view 
Its  branching  veins  of  deepest  blue ; 
The  gentle  touch  of  sickness  there 
Gave  sweetness  to  a  brow  so  fair; 
Her  form  so  exquisitely  frail, 
Her  face  so  softly,  purely  pale, 
Seemed  as  if  to  her  soul  was  given 
Already  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

And  yet  amid  the  festive   throng 
She  paused  to  hear  the  mirthful  song 
And  listened  to  the  voice  of  mirth 
As  though  she  felt  the  joys  of  earth 
Had  yet  some  power  left  to  impart 
A  sense  of  pleasure  to  her  heart. 

But  though  in  all  life's  early  bloom 
She  seemed  soon  destined  for  the  tomb, 
And  it  was  this  that  bade  each  ray 
Of  beauty  more  serenely  play  ; 
'Twas  this  that  gave  a  softened  light 
To  eyes  else  too  intensely  bright ; 
'Twas  this  that  threw  a  charm  around 
Her  every  movement ;   the  sweet  sound 
Of  her  low  voice  the  feelings  stirred 
Like  tones  of  music  faintly  heard. 

Three  little  weeks  —  the  funeral  vest 
Was  folded  o'er  that  gentle  breast, 
For  Death  had  set  his  seal  on  all 
So  loved,  so  lovely  ;  the  dark  pall, 


SWEET  REMEMBRANCE.  113 

Forever  must  that  form  enshroud 
So  late  the  idol  of  the  crowd. 

Forgot  by  many,  yet  with  me 
Thy  form  shall  live  in  memory, 
Like  half-traced  shadows  of  a  dream 
Where  all  things  fair  and  lovely  seem  — 
Such  shadows  as  the  moonbeam  makes 
When  half  through  silvery  clouds  it  breaks. 


SWEET   REMEMBRANCE. 

LOVELY  is  yon  sunset  sky 

As  fades  the  dying  day, 
And  tranquil  are  the  rippling  waves 
That  in  its  glory  play ; 
A  woodland  odor  fills  the  breeze, 

And  bloom  is  on  the  bough, 
But  where,  'mid  all  this  outward  joy, 
Are  the  hopes  of  childhood  now  ? 

The  voice  of  song  is  breathing  round 

When  summer  zephyrs  sigh, 
And  rippling  waves  in  music  wake 

Upon  the  shore  to  die  ! 
A  thousand  symphonies  are  heard 

Amid  spring's  rosy  bowers, 
But  we  miss  the  music  of  the  heart 

That  charmed  our  early  hours. 


H4  POEMS. 

SYMPATHY. 

"  Or  sai  tu  dove  e  quando  quest!  amori 
Furon  creati  e  come." 

Dante. 

LOVED  thee,  not  because  thy  brow 

Was  bright  and  beautiful  as  day, 
Not  that  on  thy  sweet  lip  the   glow 
Was  joyous  as  the  morning  ray ; 
No,  though  I  saw  thee  fairest  far, 
The  sun  that  hid  each  meaner  star, 
Yet  'twas  not  beauty  taught  me  first 
The  love  that  silent  tears  have  nurst. 

Nor  was  it  that  thine  every  word 

With  stores  of  mental  wealth  was  fraught, 
With  eloquence  each  heart  that  stirred, 
With  deepest  feeling,  holiest  thought ; 
Nor  thy  rich  voice,  whose  'witching  spell 
Like  music  on  my  spirit  fell, 
Sweet  as  the  notes  the  bugle-horn 
Breathes  when  o'er  moonlit  waters  borne. 

But  I  beheld  the  darkening  stain 

Of  sorrow  cloud  thy  beaming  eye, 
I  heard  thy  bosom's  secret  pain 

Find  utterance  in  the  struggling  sigh  ; 
And,  like  some  lone,  neglected  lute, 
My  young  heart's  sweetest  chords  were   mute 
No  hand  had  ever  touched  its  strings, 
To  wake  its  blissful  murmurings, 
And  silent  still  its  chords  would  be 
But  for  the  touch  of  sympathy. 


A   DAY  DREAM.  115 


A   DAY   DREAM. 

E'LL  have  a  cot 

Upon  the  banks  of  some  wandering  stream, 
Whose  ripple,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
Shall  be  our  music  ;   roses  there  shall  twine 
Around  the  casement,  with  the  jessamine, 
Whose  starry  blossoms  shine  out  from  beneath 
Their  veiling  leaves  like  hope,  and  whose   faint  breath 
Is  sweet  as  memory's  perfume.     All  the  flowers 
That  Nature  in  her  richest  beauty  showers, 
Shall  deck  our  home  ;   fresh  violets  that,  like  light 
And  love  and  hope,  dwell  everywhere ;   the  bright 
And  fragrant  honeysuckle,  too  ;  our  feet 
Shall  press  the  daisy's  bloom.     O  !  'twill  be  sweet 
To  sit  within  the  porch  at  even-tide, 
And  drink  the  breath  of  heaven  at  thy  dear  side. 
The  sky  will  wear  a  smile  unseen  before, 
The  sun  for  me  more  genial  light  will  pour, 
Earth  will  give  out  its  treasures  rich  and  rare, 
New  health  will  come  in  every  balmy  air. 
Then  thou  wilt  ope  to  me  great  Nature's  book, 
And  nightly  on  the  star-gemmed  heavens  we'll  look  ; 
Thou,  with  the  pride  of  knowledge,  wilt  unfold 
The  mighty  chart  where  science  is  enrolled, 
And  gayly  smile  when  I  recount  to  thee 
My  wild  and  wayward  flights  of  fantasy  ; 
For  the  frail  beings  of  my  dreamy  heaven 
Shrink  from  the  light  by  scholiast  wisdom  given. 


n6  POEMS. 

Wilt  thou  not  joy  to  see  the  vivid  glow 

Of  my  expanded  mind,  when  I  shall  owe 

Its  treasures  all  to  thee? 

Methinks  it  would  be  grief  for  me  to  bear 

E'en  bliss,  beloved,  unless  thou,  too,  might   share  ; 

But  O  !  were  joy  poured  forth  in   such  excess, 

My  heart  would  break  from  very  happiness. 


THE  MOTHER'S  FAREWELL  TO  HER  WEDDED 
DAUGHTER. 

fO,  dearest  one,  my  selfish  love  shall  never  pale 

thy  cheek  — 

Not  e'en   a  mother's  fears  for  thee  will  I  in  sad 
ness  speak  ; 
Yet  how  can  I  with  coldness   check   the   burning   tears 

that  start? 

Hast  thou  not  turned  from  me  to  dwell  within  a  stranger 
heart  ? 

I  think  on  earlier,  brighter  days,  when  first  my  lip  was 

prest 
Upon   thy  baby   brow   while   thou   lay   helpless   on   my 

breast  : 

In  fancy  still  I  see  thine  eye  uplifted  to  my  face, 
I  hear  thy  lisping  tones,  and  mark  with  joy  thy  childish 

grace. 


THE  MOTHER'S  FAREWELL.  n? 

E'en  then  I  knew  it  would  be  thus ;   I  thought  e'en  in 

that  hour, 
Another  would  its  perfume  steal  when  I  had  reared  the 

flower ; 
And  yet  I  will   not   breathe   a   sigh  —  how  may  I   dare 

repine  ? 
The  sorrow  that  thy  mother  feels  was  suffered  once  by 

mine. 

A  mother's   love !    O,    thou   knowest   not   how  much  of 

feeling  lies 
In  those    sweet  words ;  the   hopes,  the   fears,  the   daily 

strengthening  ties : 

It  wakes  ere  yet  the  infant  draws  its  earliest  vital  breath, 
And  fails  but  when  the  mother's  heart  chills  in  the  grasp 

of  death. 

Will  he,  in  whose  fond  arms  thou  seek'st   thine    all   of 

earthly  bliss, 
E'er  feel  a  love,  untiring,  deep,  and  free  from  self,  like 

this? 
O,  no  !  man's  deepest  tenderness  thy  gentle  heart   may 

prove, 
But  only  in  a  mother's  breast  dwells  such  unselfish  love. 

My  thoughts   to   thee   must   ever   turn    as   in   the  years 

gone  by, 

While  to  thy  heart  I  shall  be  like  a  dream  of  memory ; 
Go,  dearest   one,  may  angel  hosts  their  vigils  o'er  thee 

keep  — 
How  can  I  breath  love's  sad   farewell,  and  yet   forbear 

to  weep  ? 


Il8  POEMS. 


THE    DYING   YEAR, 

[HE  dying  year  !    How  are  those  few  words  fraught 

With  images  of  fading  loveliness  ! 
How   do   they   fill   with   dreams   of  saddened 

thought 

The  heart  that  sighs  o'er  all  that  once  could  bless  ! 
They  fall  with  mournful  sound  upon  the  ear, 
The  knell  of  something  we  have  long  held  dear. 

Thou  frail  and  dying  year !   ah !   where  are  now 
The  charms  that  have  in  turn  been  all  thine  own  ? 

The  spring's  young  bloom,  the  summer's  ripened  glow, 
The  autumn's  mournful  splendor,  all  are  gone, 

And  thou  art  sinking  in  oblivion's  wave : 

Would  that  the  griefs  thou  gavest  might  there,  too,  find 
a  grave  ! 

Aye,  years  may  pass  ;  but  yet  time's  rapid  flight 
Would  be  unheeded,  were  it  not  he  flings 

A  cloud  o'er  all  youth's  hopes  and  fancies  bright : 
Alas  !   he  bears  upon  his  shadowy  wings 

Darkness,  distrust,  and  sorrow ;  while  the  mind 

Pines  'mid  the  gloom  to  which  it  is  consigned. 

Thou  dying  year!  hast  thou  not  swept  away 
Joys  dearer  far  than  any  thou  hast  left  ? 

Have  we  not  seen  our  hopes  with  thee  decay  — 
Felt  ourselves  almost  desolate  and  reft 

Of  all  the  fairest,  brightest  things  of  earth  ? 

Have  we  not  turned  away  sick  of  the  world's  vain  mirth  ? 


SUNSET.  I] 

Have  we  not  prayed  that  thou  wouldst   quickly  fleet, 
When  we  were  sunk  in  sorrow's  deepest  gloom  ? 

Have  we  not  learned  each  coming  day  to  greet, 
Because  it  brought  us  nearer  to  the  tomb  ? 

And  thou  hast  fleeted,  and  with  thee  has  past 

The  strong,  deep  misery  that  could  not  last. 

Sorrow  treads  heavily,  and  leaves  behind 
A  deep  impression  e'en  when  she  departs  ; 

While  joy  trips  by  with  steps  light  as   the  wind, 
And  scarcely  leaves  a  trace  upon  our  hearts 

Of  her  faint  footfalls  :   only  this  is  sure,  — 

In  this  world  nought  save  suffering  can  endure. 

Yet  thou  art  a  kind  monitor  ;  and  we 

In  thee  may  trace  the  progress  of  our  lives : 

My  spring-time  is  yet  new  ;  I  ne'er  may  see 
The  summer  ;    and  the  fruits  that  autumn  gives 

For  me  may  never  ripen  —  o'er  my  brow 

Ere  then  the  grass  may  rustle.     Be  it  so  ! 


SUNSET. 

AREWELL,    farewell,  thou  setting  sun  ! 

I  love  thy  gentle  ray, 
Thus  brightening,  when  thy  task  is  done, 
The  dying  day's  decay  ; 
It  seems  the  pardoning  smile  of  Heaven 
O'er  errors  past  and  sins  forgiven. 


120  POEMS. 

'Twas  'neath  such  glowing  skies  as  this, 
In  fancy's  high-wrought  hour, 

That  first  the  living  soul  of  song 
O'erwhelmed  me  with  its  power  ; 

Aye,  from  thy  ray  was  drawn  the  fire 

That  lit  my  heart's  funereal  pyre. 

O,  many  a  change  since  then  has  past 
Across  this  wayward  heart ; 

Then  I  could  almost  weep  to  see 
Thy  gentle  light  depart  ; 

But  now  I  love  thy  fading  ray, 

For  with  it  sinks  another  day. 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  setting  sun ! 

Thy  last  faint  smile  is  gone  ; 
Thou  goest  to  make  another  clime 

A  bright  and  smiling   dawn. 
But  ah  !  too  soon  thy  morning   beam 
Will  wake  me  from  soft  slumber's  dream. 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  setting  sun  ! 

I  will  not  thus  complain, 
What  though  thy  dawning  light  will  wake 

My  heart  to  thoughts  of  pain  ? 
Will  it  not  wake  my  spirit,  too  ? 
Are  there  no  duties  left  to  do  ? 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  setting  sun  ! 
I  love  thy  gentle  ray, 


SABBATH  MORNING. 

When  thus  calm  feelings  can  look  back 

Upon  a  well-spent  day, 
And  bid  me  seek  new  strength  from  Him 
Before  whose  brow  thy  light  is  dim. 


SABBATH    MORNING. 

HERE   is  a  quiet  beauty  on  the  sky, 
A  balmy  freshness  in  the  tranquil  air, 
That  fills  my  mind  with  holiest  thoughts,  my 

heart 

With  gentlest  feelings ;  e'en  the  glorious  sun 
With  softer  splendor  seems  to  usher  in 
The  peaceful  Sabbath.     Well  may  it  be  called 
A  day  of  rest,  when  it  thus  sweetly  stills 
Not  merely  the  wide  city's  busy  hum, 
But  the  fierce  warfare  of  the  human  heart. 
O,  how  could  passion  wake  in  this  calm  hour  ? 
E'en  my  proud  soul  is  humbled,  and  I  lift 
Mine  eye  to  Heaven,  not  now  in  wild  reproof, 
Murmuring  at  its  decrees,  but  with  the  deep 
And  calm  submission  of  a  wounded  spirit, 
Praying  for  strength  to  suffer.     Well  I  know 
My  lot  is  sorrow  ;  pain,  and  sickness,  aye, 
The  sickness  of  the  heart,  and  early  death, 
These  fill  the  measure  of  my  destiny. 
And  O,  how  often  do  my  feelings  rise 
In  vain  rebellion,  when  with  weary  limb 
I  press  the  couch  of  sickness  !  or  when  pain, 
The  worst  of  pain,  wrings  my  lone  heart,  how  oft 


122  POEMS. 

Does  my  worn  spirit  pray  that  soon  may  come 

The  rest  too  long  delayed  !  but  when  I   feel 

The  fragrant  breath  of  heaven,  e'en  though  as  now 

It  fans  a  feverish  brow,  or  stirs    across 

A  cheek  that  tears  have  faded,  it   awakes 

My  slumbering  energies.    The  Power  that  stills 

The  raging  of  the  swelling  seas,  can  stay 

The  wild  tempestuous  waves  of  earthly  feeling, 

And  teach  me  calm  endurance. 


DEVOTION. 

•INE  eyes  are  pained  with  watching,  for  the  brow 
Of  heaven  has  lost  its  crown  of  starry  light, 
And  soon  upon  my  dim  and  dazzled  sight 
The  gladdening  morn  will  come  with  all  its  glow 
Of  new-born  loveliness ;   then   let  me  bow 
The  knee  to  Heaven,  and  lift  my  heart  in  prayer, 
Ere  earth   with  all  its  vain  and  troublous  care 
Comes  back  upon  my  spirit,  ere  the    flow 
Of  holy  thought  be  stayed  :  yet  'tis  for  thee 
That  I  would  pray,  beloved  one,  for  thy  lot 
I  dare  to  question  God's  untold  decree, 
And  ask  the  bliss  my  own  heart  knoweth  not ; 
Be  thy  path  marked  with  light !  enough  for  me 
If  in  thy  glory's  hour  I  be  not  quite  forgot. 


LINES. 


123 


LINES 

ON    READING,    IN    A    SHORT    POEM    BY    F.   G.   HALLECK,  THE 
FOLLOWING    STANZAS  : 

"  Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour, 
And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  poet's  pride  and  power. 

"  And  if  despondency  weigh  down 

Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 
Despair  —  thy  name  is  w-ritten  on 
The  roll  of  common  men." 

!INSTREL,  full  oft  thy  varied  song 

Has  waked  the  echoes  of  my  heart, 
And  gloomy  fancies  cherished  long 
Have  fled  before  thy  art, 
And  now  thou  comest  with  holier   power 

To  nerve  the  spirit's  wearied  wing, 
And  o'er  its  path,  where  tempests  lower, 
Reflected  light  to  fling. 

Though  heaven-born  inspiration   ne'er 

Breathe  o'er   my  melancholy  strain, 
Yet  with  a  poet's  heart  I  bear 

A  poet's  lot  of  pain  ; 
And  hard  it  is  to  bring  the  soul 

Back  to  the  low  pursuits  of  earth, 
When  where  the  stars  in  beauty  roll 

It  seeks  its  place  of  birth. 


124  POEMS. 

While  all  on  earth  grew  dark  beside, 

I've  lived  but  on  the  hope  that  fame, 
Since  happiness  was  now  denied, 

In  death  would  bless    my  name  ; 
Vain  hope  !  when  men  upon  whose  brow 

The  hand  of  Heaven  has  set  his  seal, 
Whose  souls  with  God's  own  spirit  glow, 

The  world's  neglect  must  feel. 

Yet  is  it  cherished,  —  I  would  lie 

This  moment  on  the  bed  of  death, 
Calm  as  a  wearied  child,  nor  sigh 

To  yield  my  failing  breath  ; 
And  dear  as  are  affection's  ties, 

Strong  as  is  friendship's  holier  charm, 
Gladly  I'd  grasp  the  richer  prize, 

And  barter  life  for  fame. 


FILIAL   LOVE. 

•Y  father,  weep  not  that  my  cheek 
Has  lost  health's  roseate  glow, 
And  look  not  thus  with  mournful  gaze 
Upon  my  wasted  brow. 
Tis  hard  to  die  in  early  youth, 

When  hope  fills  every  breath  ; 
But  only  when  I  look  on  thee, 
I  feel  the  sting  of  death. 


FILIAL  LOVE.  125 

Long  since  I  knew  it  would  be  thus  : 

Upon  my  sleeping  ear 
Came  the  stern  voice  of  death,  in  words 

Of  anguish  and  of  fear  ; 
And  'mid  my  waking  visions,  too, 

Within  my  silent  heart, 
There  dwelt  the  secret  consciousness 

That  I  must  soon    depart. 

How  lovely  seemed  the  world  around, 

Whene'er  I  thought  of  this  ! 
The  very  air  and  light  of  heaven 

Seemed  redolent  of  bliss  ; 
And  O,    how  fondly  have  I  gazed 

Upon  earth's  flower-decked  face, 
When  I  remembered  it  would  soon 

Smile  o'er  my  burial-place  ! 

All  those  sweet  feelings  that  within 

A  woman's  bosom  dwell, 
And  throw  o'er  life's  most  desert  scene 

Love's  soft  bewitching  spell, 
Were  in  my  heart.     How  could  I  turn 

From  all  this  light  and  bloom, 
To  think  upon  the  dark  things  hid 

Within  the  silent  tomb  ? 

Nay,  weep  not,    father;   I  have  learned 

To  bow  my  stubborn  will : 
The  Power  that  calms  the  swelling  seas, 

The  rebel  heart  can  still ;  , 


126  POEMS. 

Now  I  can  look  with  fearless  eye 
On  mine  approaching  fate  ; 

But  O  how  can  I  bear  to  die, 
And  leave  thee  desolate  ? 


THE  EXCUSE. 

HE   tribute  of  a  passing  lay, 

The  song  that  stranger  eyes  may  see, 
Not  such  the  homage  I  would  pay, 
My  own  dear  love,  to  thee  ; 
No !  poesy's  less  fragile   flowers, 
The  riches  of  affection's  mine, 
And  all  the  spirit's  loftier  powers 
Are  offered  on  thy  shrine. 

When  on  the  wing  of  fancy  borne, 

My  spirit  soars  to  realms  of  bliss, 
And  seeks  those  joys  which  ne'er  adorn 

A  world  of  pain  like  this, 
'Tis  only  that  I  would  illume 

The  temple  where  mine  idol  dwells 
With  heaven's  own  light,  and  chase  the  gloom 

Of  earth's  bewildering  spells. 

Though  oft  I  feel  that  could  I  bind 

Around  my  brow  fame's  fadeless  wreath, 
Filled  with  the  power  and  pride  of  mind 
•  My  soul  would  smile  at   death  ; 


TO  MY  HARP.  127 


Yet  'tis  but  for  thy  sake  I  claim 
The  honors  of  the  poet's  lot ; 

For  why  should  glory  be  my  aim 
If  thou  couldst  share  it  not? 


TO    MY   HARP. 

1 N   vain  !  in  vain  !   my  hand  no  more 

Thy  charm  of  silence  now  can  break 
No  longer  wilt  thou  deign  to  pour 
The  music  I  was  wont  to  make. 
In  vain  with  wooing  touch  I  fling 
My  fingers  o'er  each  radiant  string ; 
Still  all  are  hushed,  or  but  reply 
In  strains  of  broken  melody. 

Have  I,  then,  lost  the  power  to  sway 
Thy  magic  chords  with  former  skill  ? 

Or    art  thou  wearied  to  obey 
The  impulse  of  a  wayward  will  ? 

This  feeble  hand  has  now  new  power 

In  painful  study's  toilsome    hour, 

This  wayward  will  no  longer  strays 

'Mid  passion's  wild  and  devious  ways. 

Where,  then,  my  lonely  harp,  has  gone 

The  sweetness  of  thy  early  tone  ? 

Ah  !   well  I  know  ;    thou  wert  not  made 
'Neath  pleasure's  sunny  light  to  dwell, 

'Tis  only  in   dark  sorrow's  shade 

Thy  song  can  wake  its  powerful  spell ; 


128  POEMS. 

Thou  wast  but  formed  with  gentle  art 
To  charm  the  desolated  heart. 

And  now  that  o'er  my  wearied  soul 

The  light  of  happiness  is  shed, 
No  more  thou  yield'st  to  my  control, 

Thy  soul  of  melody  is  fled. 
Well  be  it  so  —  I  will  not  seek 
That  thou  in  tones  of  joy  shouldst  speak  ; 
But  ah  !  too  soon  the  clouds  of  woe 
Their  darkness  o'er  my  soul  will  throw, 
Then  will  I  woo  thy  soothing   strain 
To  cheer  my  saddened  hours  again  ; 
And  when  despair's  fell  demons  throng 
I  will  invoke  thy  gentle  song 
The  fearful  shadows  to  dispel : 
Till  then,  loved  harp,  farewell,  farewell. 


THE   FAREWELL. 

"  It  was  a  peasant  girl's,  whose  soul  was  given 
To  one  as  far  above  her  as  the  pine 
Towers  o'er  the  lowly  violet." 

L.  E.  L. 

,  dearest   one ;   nor   think   my   heart   will   ever 

breathe  a  sigh 
Because  it  never  now   can   share    thy   glorious 

destiny. 

My  love  has  never  sought  reward  ;  'twas  joy  enough  for 
me 

To  pass  my  life  in  loneliness,  and   cherish    thoughts  of 
thee. 


THE  FAREWELL.  129 

While  yet  a  child,  I  freely  gave  affection's  untold  wealth  ; 
Since  then  I've  known  the  swift  decay  of  hope,  and  joy, 

and  health, 
And  murmured  not  at  Heaven's  decree,  though    thus    of 

all  bereft ; 
How  could  I  mourn  ?  whilst  thou  wert  mine  a  world  of 

bliss  was  left. 

Though  other  ties  may  bind  thee,  clear,    though  we  are 

doomed  to  part, 

Yet  still  it  is  not  sin  to  hide  thine  image  in  my  heart  ; 
So  pure,  so  holy  was  the  spell  which  love  around  us  cast, 
That  even  now  I  would  not  wake,  although  the  charm 

be  past. 

And  in  thy  memory  by-past  days  will  leave  their  gentle 

grace  ; 
Not  all  the  fondness   of  a  wife   those   bright   tints   can. 

efface. 

Her  lot  may  be  of  happiness  beyond  stern  fate's  control  ; 
But  /  have  known  a  purer  joy  —  the  union  of  the  soul. 

Farewell,  beloved  one  ;  when  thy  brow  the  laurel  crown 

shall  bind, 
And  when  adoring  crowds  shall  own  the  sovereignty  of 

mind, 
Then  think  of  one  who  looks  on  thee  with  more   than 

woman's  pride, 
And  glories  in  the  thought  that  she  has  been  thy  spirit's 

bride. 
9 


130  POEMS. 


SONNET. 

=ASS  on,  stern  Time  !   I    know  thy  shadowy  wing 
Is  bearing  youth,  and  health,  and  hope  away  ; 
Then  swiftly  fleet,  and  bring  th'  appointed  day 
When  this  worn  spirit  may  no  longer  cling 
To  earth-born  vanities,  but  gladly  fling 
Its  weight  of  clay  aside.     My  wearied  soul 
Pines  'neath  the  fetters  of  the  world's  control, 
Sick  of  the  thousand  petty  cares  that  sting 
The  heart  almost  to  madness.     I  have  sought 
My  joy  in  dreams  ;  alas  !  its  end  was  pain, 
And  hope's  unreal  fancies  and  deep  thoughts 
Cherished  in  solitude  have  been  my  bane  ; 
But  now  upon  my  lone  couch  I  could  lie, 
Calm  as  a  wayward,  wearied  child,  and  die  ! 


SPRING   BREEZES. 

joyous  breezes,  I  trace  your  way 
O'er  the  meadows  decked  in  their  bright  array  ; 
The  flow'rets  are  bending  your   steps  to  greet, 
New  blossoms  are  springing  beneath  your  feet, 
While  the  rosebud  her  freshest  fragrance  flings, 
And  woos  ye  to  rest   your  wearied  wings. 

But  on  ye  pass  ;  for  no  charm  ye  stay ; 
Still  onward  ye  hold  your  gladdening  way. 


SPXLVG  BREEZES.  131 

Your  breath  has  rippled  the  mountain  stream, 
And  a  thousand  suns  from  its  surface  gleam  ; 
Your  voice  has  wakened  the  wild  bird's  note, 
And  fragrance  and  melody  round  you  float. 

Ye  joyous  breezes,  still  on  ye  go  ; 
Your  breath  is  passing  o'er  Beauty's  brow ; 
Your  wings  are  stirring  her  radiant  hair; 
Your  kiss  is  brightening  her  cheeks  so  fair ; 
And  the  innocent  thoughts  of  her  heart  rejoice 
With  the  mirthful  tones  of  your  wild  sweet  voice. 

"  Though  flowers  may  gladden  our  path  to-day, 
When  to-morrow  we  come,  they  are  passed  away  ; 
And  the  cheerful  smile  and  the  rosy  hue, 
From  the  cheek  of  beauty  have  faded  too  ; 
And  our  gentle  whispers  no  more  impart 
A  feeling  of  joy  to  her  youthful  heart. 

"Is  our  path  then  marked  by  so  much  of  mirth? 
Alas  for  the  folly  and  blindness  of  earth ! 
Is  there  not  mingled  a  voice  of  wail 
With  the  sweetest  tones  of  the  young  spring  gale  ? 
If  like  infancy's  joyous  laugh  we  rise, 
Pass  we  not  onward  like  manhood's  sighs  ? 

"We  but  do  the  will  of  our  Master  here, 
Our  joy  is  found  in  a  holier  sphere  : 
We  are  born  in  heaven  ;  can  our  purer  breath 
Pass  mirthfully  over  the  fields  of  death  ? 
And  what  is  earth  with  its  transient  bloom 
And  fading  charms,  but  a  flower-decked  tomb?" 


132  POEMS. 


SONNET. 

JAY,  spring  is  not  now  fair  ;  I  cannot  now 
Greet  its  glad  wakening,  though  I  oft  have  loved 
To  watch  its  coming  when  its  breezes  moved 
Like  music  o'er  my  spirit,  and  my  brow 
Was  bright  with  hope  and  health.     The  joyous   glow 
Of  nature's  new-born  loveliness  to  me 
Is  fraught  with  pain  ;  for  ere  the  budding  tree 
Shall  put  forth  all  its  beauty,  ere  the  snow 
Melts  from  the  mountain  summits,  we  must  part, 
Mine  own  dear  friend  !     Thou  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 
Borne  by  spring's  earliest  gales,  wilt  leave  my  heart 
To  mourn  in  loneliness,  bereft  of  thee, 
While  to  thy  memory  I  shall  only  seem 
The  half-traced  image  of  a  pleasant  dream. 


CONFIDENCE    IN    HEAVEN. 

T   is  in  vain  the  weary  spirit  strives 
With    that   which    doth    consume    it :    there   is 

born 

A  strength  from  suffering  which  can  laugh  to  scorn 
The  stroke  of  sorrow,  even  though  it  rives 
Our  very  heart-strings  ;  but  the  grief  that  lives 
Forever  in  the  heart,  and  day  by  day 
Wastes  the  soul's  high-wrought  energies   away, 
And  wears  the  lofty  spirit  down,  and  gives 


THE    TRANSPLANTED  FLOWERS.  133 

Its  own  dark  hue  to  life,  O  !  who  can  bear  ? 

Yet,  as  the  black  and  threatening  tempests  bring 

New  fragrance  to  earth's  flowers  and  tints  more  fair, 

So  beneath  sorrow's  nurture  virtues  spring. 

Youth,  health,  and  hope  may  fade,  but  there  is  left 

A  soul  that  trusts  in  Heaven,  though  thus  of  all  bereft. 


THE   TRANSPLANTED    FLOWERS. 

AY,  hold,  sweet  lady,  thy  cruel  hand, 
O  !  sever  not  thus  our  kindred  band, 
And  look  not  upon  us  with  pitiless  eye, 
As  on  flow'rets  born  but  to  blossom  and  die. 

Together  we  drank  the  morning  dew, 
And  basked  in  the  glances  the  sunbeams  threw, 
And  together  our  sweets  we  were  wont  to  fling, 
When  Zephyr  swept  by  on  his  radiant  wing. 

When  the  purple  shadows  of  evening  fell, 
'Twas  sweet  to  murmur  our  low  farewell, 
And  together  with  fragrant   sighs  to  close 
Our  perfumed  blossoms  in  calm  repose. 

But  now  with  none  to  respond  our  sigh, 
In  a  foreign  home  we  must  droop  and  die ; 
The  bonds  of  kindred  we  once  have  known, 
And  how  can  we  live  in  the  world  alone  ? 


134  POEMS. 

O,  lady,  list  to  the  voice  of  mirth 
By  childhood  wakened  around  thy  hearth, 
And  think  how  lonely  thy  heart  would  pine 
Should  fortune  the  ties  of  affection  untwine. 

E'en  now,  in  the  midst  of  that  circle  blest, 
There  are  lonely  thoughts  in  thine  aching  breast, 
And  how  wouldst  thou  weep  if,  bereft  of  all, 
Thou  shouldst  sit  alone  in  thy  empty  hall ! 


SONG. 

HOU  art  amid  the  festive  halls 

Where  beauty  wakes  her  spell  for  thee  ; 
Where  music  on  thy  spirit  falls 
Like  moonlight  on  the  sea ; 
But  now  while  fairer  brows  are  smiling, 
And  brighter  lips  thy  heart  beguiling, 
Thinkest  thou  of  me  ? 

Fair  forms  and  faces  pass  thee  by 

Like  bright  creations  of  a  dream  ; 
And  love-lit  eyes,  when  thou  art  nigh, 

With  softer  splendors  beam  : 
Life's  gayest  witcheries  are  round  thee  ; 
But  now  while  mirth  and  joy  surround  thee, 

Thinkest  thou  of  me  ? 


SONNET.  135 


LOVE   UNSOUGHT. 

[HEY  tell  me  that  I  must  not   love, 

That  thou  wilt  spurn  the  free 
And  unbought  tenderness  that   gives 
Its  hidden  wealth  to  thee. 
It  may  be  so  ;   I  heed  it  not, 
Nor  would  I  change  my  blissful  lot, 
When  thus  I  am  allowed  to  make 
My  heart  a  bankrupt  for   thy  sake. 

They  tell  me  when  the  fleeting  charm 

Of  novelty  is  o'er, 
Thou'lt  turn  away  with  careless  brow 

And  think  of  me  no  more. 
It  may  be  so  !   enough  for  me 
If  sunny  skies  still  smile  o'er  thee, 
Or  I  can  trace,  when  thou  art  far, 
Thy  pathway  like  a  distant  star. 


SONNET. 

!  they  may  talk  of  conquerors,  and   tell 
Of  trophies  that  adorned  a  Caesar's  car, 
And  spread  his  glory  to  the  world  afar, 
Until  his  name  becomes  as  'twere  a  spell 
To  wake  the  hearts  of  nations.     It  is  well 
That  men  should  be  thus  roused ;   but  are  there  not 


136  POEMS. 

Far  nobler  triumphs  in  the  humble  lot 

Of  him  who  turns,  when  passion's  hosts  rebel, 

Undaunted  to  the  conflict?  when  the  heart 

Against  itself  in  warfare  must  arise, 

Till,  one  by  one,  the  joys  of  life  depart, 

And  e'en  the  hope  that  nerved  the  spirit  dies  ! 

Yet  not  to  him  are  earthly  honors  given  ; 

Enough  if  conquest  win  th'  approving  smile  of  Heaven. 


THE   MAIDEN   TO   HER  REJECTED  LOVER. 

•  Y   heart  is  with  its  early  dream  ;  it  cannot  turn 

away 
^  To  seek  again   the  joys   of  earth,  and    mingle 

with  the  gay : 
The  dew-nursed  flower  that   lifts    its   brow  beneath   the 

shades  of  night, 

Must  wither  when  the  sunbeam  sheds  its  too  resplen 
dent  light. 

My  heart  is  with  its  early  dream  ;  and  vainly  love's  soft 
power 

Would  seek  to  charm  that  heart  anew,  in  some  unguarded 
hour. 

I  would  not  that  some  gentle  one  should  hear  my  fre 
quent  sigh  : 

The  deer  that  bears  its  death-wound  turns  in  loneliness 
to  die. 


THE  REMEMBRANCE   OF   YOUTH  IS  A   SIGH.       137 

My  heart  is  with  its  early  dream  ;  I  cannot  now  forget 
The  fantasy  whose  faded  light  illumes  my  spirit  yet : 
The  summer  sun  may  sink  at  once  beneath  the  western 

main, 
But  long  upon  heaven's  dark'ning  brow  the    clouds  his 

light  retain. 

My  heart  is  with  its  early  dream  ;  yet  there  are  mo 
ments  still 

When,  like  a  pulse  within  my  soul,  I  feel  joy's  transient 
thrill ; 

For  never  can  I  hear  unmoved  the  words  of  friendship 
spoken  ; 

The  blast  that  rends  the  wind-god's  harp  may  leave 
one  string  unbroken. 


THE   REMEMBRANCE   OF   YOUTH    IS  A  SIGH. 

YES,  we  may  weep  over  moments  departed, 

And  look   on   the  past  with  a  sorrowful    eye, 
For  who,    roving   on    through   the   world  weary 

hearted, 
But  feels  "  The  remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh  ?  " 

Though  earth  still  may  wear  all  its  verdure  and  flowers, 
Though  our  pathway  may  smile   'neath  a  bright  sum 
mer  sky, 

Yet  the  serpent  lies  hid  in  life's  sunniest  bowers, 
And  still  "  The  remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh." 


I38  POEMS. 

Then  surely  the  heart  whose  best  pleasures  have  van 
ished, 

As  spring  birds  depart  when  cold  winter  draws  nigh, 
The  bosom  whence  hope's  sweet  illusions  are  banished, 

Must  know  "  The  remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh." 

Too  early  have  faded  my  moments  of  gladness, 

Ere  the  bloom  and  the  spring-time  of  youth  are  gone 
by; 

Too  early  my  days  have  been  shrouded  by  sadness, 
And  to  me  "  The  remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh." 


GRATITUDE. 

BELOVED    one,  beloved  one, 
When  in  thine  eye  I  see 
Thy  look  of  placid  tenderness 
So  fondly  turned  on  me, 
My  heart  rebounds  with  sudden  joy, 

Its  sorrows  are  forgot ; 
And  all  unmarked  the  clouds  that  now 
Have  gathered  o'er  my  lot. 

Beloved  one,  beloved  one, 
When  on  thy  glowing  cheek 

I  see  a  pleasant  smile  again, 
Of  cheerful  fancies  speak, 

Methinks  I  hear  Hope's  siren  voice  ; 
She  whispers  that  the  hour 


SOATA'ET.  139 

\\  ill  come  at  length  when  peace  may  shed 
O'er  both  her  pitying  power. 

Beloved  one,  beloved  one, 

Whene'er  thy  soft  caress 
Is  proffered  in  the  gentle  hour 

Of  tranquil  tenderness, 
My  heart  o'erflows  with  grateful  joy  ; 

Love's  pent-up  streams  once  more 
O'er  all  my  life's  swift  fading  flowers, 

Their  dews  of  freshness  pour. 


SONNET. 

^  LAS  !  alas,  for  those  fresh  feelings  now 

That  shed  such  sweetness  o'er  my  early  days  ! 
Alas  for  that  bright  fancy  whose  rich  rays 
E'en  o'er  earth's  darkest  moments   threw  a  glow 
Like  heaven's  own  light,  and  tinged  all  things  below 
With  hues  of  paradise.     My  spirit's  gaze, 
Like  the  young  eaglet's,  hung  upon  the  blaze, 
Of  glory's  sun   undazzled,   and  my  brow 
Brightened  with  fame's  proud  hope  ;   the  poet's  crown 
Was  all  I  sought,  and  thou,  beloved,  wert  nigh 
To  cheer  my  heart  when  pained  by  fortune's  frown. 
O !  hearken  to  my  melancholy  cry  ; 
Behold  my  spirit  in   the  dust  cast  down, 
And   let   me   once  more    drink    new   being    from   thine 
eye. 


POEMS. 


THE   WEARY   DAY. 

'HE  weary  clay,  the  weary  day, 

Its  endless  round  I  trace, 
And  vainly  seek  with  tale  and  song 
The  heavy  hours  to  chase  ; 
But  in  thy  absence,  idle  all 

Such  arts,  beloved,  must  be, 
The  hours  but  fly  on  eagles'  wings 
When  I  am    near  to  thee. 

Un waked  by  thy  sweet  voice,  my  lute 

Has  lost  its  wonted  tone, 
Or  if  perchance  I  touch  its  strings, 

It  breathes  of  pain  alone! 
Unlighted  by  thy  sun's   bright   smile, 

My  wild  flower  wreath  is  dead  ; 
Too  worthless  now  its  faded  bloom 

To  deck  thy  gentle  head. 

But  when  the  lengthened  shadows  fall 

To  close  the  drooping  flowers, 
No  longer  do  I  vainly  chide 

The  slowly  lagging  hours. 
For  ere  the  dews  of  evening  shed 

On  earth  their  fragrance  sweet, 
I  know  that  my  impatient  heart 

Thy  beauty,  love,  shall  greet. 


THE  DYING  POET.  141 

THE  DYING  POET. 

J    ^  2^5  IS  over!  life's  bewildering  dream  is  fading  from 


&    And  soon  my  weary  heart  shall  rest  in  death's 

untroubled  night  ; 

To-morrow's  setting  sun  will  gleam  upon  the  icy  brow 
Of  him  who  turns  with  failing  eyes  to  watch  its  glories 
now. 

Thou  setting  sun !  how  oft  on  thee    I've  gazed  in  early 

years, 

Until  my  infant  eyes  have  filled  with  soft  delicious  tears  ! 
Alas  !  I  little  knew  such  tears  from  those  deep  fountains 

sprung, 
That  since   o'er   all    the   flowers  of  life   their  venomed 

sweets  have  flung. 

My  thoughts  were  not  as  others'  thoughts,  for  Nature 
ever  spoke 

A  deeper  language  to  my  heart,  and  sweeter  feelings 
woke  ; 

The  glorious  sun,  the  flower-decked  earth,  the  moun 
tain's  rushing  stream, 

Each  filled  my  wild  and  restless  thought  with  some  en 
rapturing  dream. 

O  !  ne'er  can  I  forget  the  hour,  the  blissful  hour  when 

first 
O'er  Castaly's  pure  fount  I  bent   to  quench  my  spirit's 

thirst  ; 


142  POEMS. 

When  dazzled  by  my  glorious  dreams,  o'ermastered   by 

a  throng 
Of  thoughts  too  beautiful  for  speech,  I    poured  them  forth 

in  song. 

And  then,  too,  came  the  voice  of  praise,  whose  all-resist 
less  spell 

Upon  my  burning  fancy  sweet  as  dews  of  evening  fell. 

Alas !  as  night-dews  fall  alike  to  freshen  weeds  and 
flowers, 

Thus,  while  it  \vakened  loftier  thoughts,  it  roused  dark 
passion's  powers. 

With  fearless  foot  I  dared  to  climb  ambition's  dizzy  way, 
For  by  its  own  resplendent  light  my  soul  was  led  astray. 
I  lived  but  on  the  breath  of  fame  ;  the  gentler  hopes 

of  life 
Were  all  unheeded  while  I  gave  myself  to  envious  strife. 

Yet  there  was  one,  a  gentle  girl,  whose  look  had  power 

to  still 

The  busy  demon  in  my  heart  and  mould  me  to  her  will ; 
But  ah  !  she  feared  to  share  with  me  a  poet's  wayward 

fate, 
She  could  not  prize  a  minstrel's  love,  and  I  am  desolate. 

Yet  not   unblest   has   been   my  lot ;   my  song   has   had 

high  power 
To  cheer  the  heavy  thoughts  of  woe    in   many  a  weary 

hour  ; 


THE  FADED  PASSION-FLOWER.  143 

And  many  a  gentle  heart  has  ceased  to  feel  its  own 
distress, 

While  bending  o'er  the  page  that  told  the  poet's  wretch 
edness. 

My  lot  has  been  a  lonely  one,  and   now  unwept  I  die, 
Strangers  will  close  my  glazing  eyes,  and  bear  my  latest 

sigh  ; 
Yet  they  will  write  upon  the  stone  that  marks  my  lonely 

grave,— 
"  Joyless  and  lone  he  passed  his  life,  but  joy  to  others 

gave."  l 


THE   FADED   PASSION-FLOWER. 

E,  keep  the  flower;  'tis  faded  now, 
And  all  unmeet  to  deck  thy  brow  ; 
But  though  of  beauty  thus  bereft, 
How  much  of  sweetness  still  is  left ! 

Aye,  keep  the  flower ;  and  if  it  grieves 
Thy  heart  to  see  its  faded  leaves, 
Forget  it  ever  was  more  fair, 
And  think  its  fragrance  still  is  there. 

Aye,  keep  the  flower ;   another  eye 
Might  heedless  pass  the  blossom  by; 

l  "  Joyless  I  lived  but  joy  to  others  gave."  —  Delitte. 


144  POEMS. 

But  will  it  not  far  dearer  be 

When  wakes  its  perfume  but  for  thee  ? 

Aye,  keep  the  flower  ;  and  shouldst  thou  seek, 
An  emblem  of  my  faded  cheek, 
Thou'lt  find  it  there  —  from  Heaven's  own  light 
Came  both  its  beauty  and  its  blight. 

Aye,  keep  the  flower  ;   and  it  may  seem 
An  emblem  of  my  bosom's  dream  ; 
Joy's  brilliant  hue  not  long   could  last ; 
But  when,  O !  when  shall  love  be  past  ? 


LOVE'S   VIGIL. 

slumbered,  and  unseen  I  gazed 
Upon  her  gentle  brow  ; 
The  eye,  where  so  much  brightness  blazed 
Was  closed  in  darkness  now ; 
And  yet  its  glories  scarce  were  hid 
Beneath  that  soft  and  shadowy  lid. 

She  slumbered,  and  her  velvet  lip 

Was  like  the  folded  rose, 
Ere  yet  the  bee  its  sweets  could  sip, 

Or  mar  its  calm  repose ; 
O  !  language  were  too  cold  and  weak, 
Its  silent  eloquence  to  speak. 


TO   .  145 

She  slumbered ;  o'er  her  placid  face 

A  gleam  of  softness  came, 
And  while  I .  watched  its  winning  grace, 

I  heard  her  breathe  my  name  ; 
Blest  be  the  heart  that  thus  could  keep 
Love's  vivid  memories  e'en  in  sleep. 


TO 


iHY  glorious  smile,  thy  glorious  smile 

Beams  as  'twas  wont  to  do, 
When   o'er  my  youthful  feelings  first 
Love's  summer  light  it  threw  : 
Then  it  was  worshipped  from  afar, 
But  still  it  was  my  guiding  star. 

Thy  gentle  voice,  thy  gentle  voice, 

O,  still  it  has  high  power 
To  rouse  joy's  echoes  in  my  soul, 

As  in  the  blessed  hour 
When  first  I  heard  the  low-breathed   tone 
That  made  my  childish  heart  its  own. 

Thy  sunbright  eye,  thy  sunbright  eye, 

Once  more  it  turns  on  me 
The  sweetness  of  its  early  look, 

And  mingles  tenderly 
Affection's  moonbeams,  pure  and  bright, 
With  intellect's  refulgent  light. 
10 


146  POEMS. 


STANZAS. 

"  I  did  love  once 
As  youth,  as  woman,  genius  loves." 

L.  E.  L. 

KNOWEST  thou,  dear  one,  the  love   of  youth, 
With  its  wayward  fancies,  its  untried  truth ; 
Yet  cloudless  and  warm  as  the  sunny  ray 
That  opens  the  flowers  of  a  summer's  day, 
Unfolding  the  passionate  thoughts  that  lie 
'Mid  feelings  pure  as  an  angel's  sigh, 
Till  the  loftiest  strength  of  our  nature  wakes 
As  an  infant  giant  from  slumber  breaks  — 
O,  knowest  thou,  clear,  what  this  love  may  be  ? 
In  earlier  days  such  was  mine  for  thee. 

O,  knowest  thou,  dear  one,  of  woman's  love, 

With  its  faith  that  woes  but  more  deeply  prove  ; 

Its  fondness  wide  as  the  limitless  wave, 

And  chainless  by  aught  than  the  silent  grave  ; 

With  devotion  as  humble  as  that  which  brings 

To  his  idol  the  Indian's  offerings ; 

Yet  proud  as  that  which  the   priestess  feels, 

When    she    nurses   the   flame   of  the    shrine   while   she 

kneels  — 

O,  knowest  thou,  dear,  what  this  love  may  be  ? 
Such  ever  has  been  in  my  heart  for  thee. 

O,  knowest  thou  the  love  of  a  poet's  soul, 

Of  the  mind  that  from  heaven  its  brightness  stole  ; 


STANZAS.  147 

When  the  gush  of  song,  like  the  life-blood,  springs 

Unchecked  from  the  heart,  and  the  spirit's  wings 

Are  nerved  anew  in  a  loftier  flight 

To  seek  for  its  idol  a  crown  of  light ; 

When  the  visions  that  wake  beneath  fancy's  beam, 

But  serve  to  brighten  an  earthly  dream  — 

O,  knowest  thou,  dear,  what  this  love  may  be  ? 

Such  long  has  been  in  my  heart  for  thee. 

O,  tell  me,  dear,  can  such  love  decay 
Like  the  sapless  weed  in  the  morning  ray  ? 
Can  the  love  of  earlier,  brighter  years 
Be  chased  away  like  an  infant's  tears? 
Can  the  long-tried  faith  of  a  woman's  heart 
Like  a  summer  bird  from  its  nest  depart  ? 
Can  affection  nursed  within  fancy's  bowers, 
Find  deadly  herbs  'mid  those  fragrant  flowers  ? 
O  !  no,  beloved  one,  it  cannot  be : 
Such  end  awaits  not  my  love  for  thee. 

Youth's  pure  fresh  feelings  have  faded  now, 

But  not  less  warm  is  love's  summer  glow  ; 

Dark  frowns  may  wither,  unkindness  blight 

The  heart  where  thou  art  the  only  light; 

And  coldness  may  freeze  the  wild  gush  of  song, 

Or  chill  the  spirit  once  tameless  and  strong  ; 

And  the  pangs  of  neglected  love  may  prey 

Too  fatally,  dear,  on  this  fragile  clay: 

But  never,  O  never,  beloved,  can  it  be 

That  my  heart  should  forget  its  deep  fondness  for  thee. 


148  POEMS. 


LOVE   RETURNED. 

JNE  arm  around  her  silent  harp  was  flung; 
Her  brow  was  bending  o'er  it,  and  its  chords 
Were    twined   with  her  dark  tresses.     Wrapt  in 

thought, 

She  stirless  sat ;   and  when  the  soft  breeze   fanned 
The  ringlets  from  her  cheeks,  a  glow  was  there, 
Like  the  rich  hue  that  decks  the  Florence  rose, 
While  the  sweet  smile  that  hovered  round  her  lip 
Was  bright  as  April  sunlight ;  in  her  eye 
Was  hope  with  sadness  blended,  as  if  joy 
Had  been  so  long  a  stranger  to  her  heart 
That  now  she  scarce  dared  welcome  it. 

She  spoke  ; 

And  the  low  accents  of  her  voice  were  sweet, 
Yet  melancholy  as  the  moaning  wave  :  — 

"  '  Love  must  win  love  '  —  O,  were  not  these  the  words, 
The  blessed  words  he  uttered  ?     While  my  heart 
With  life  and  feeling  throbs,  I  must  remember 
How  like  the  freshening  dews  of  heaven  they  came, 
Waking  new  hopes,  renewing  faded  dreams, 
And  thrilling  all  my  frame  with  sudden  joy." 

She  paused  ;  and  her  light  fingers  touched  the  harp, 
Calling  out  low  and  plaintive  symphonies  ; 
Then,  as  with  bolder  touch  she  swept  the  strings, 
Her  voice  broke  forth  responsive,  and  she  sung :  — 


LOVE  RETURNED.  149 

'  Love  must  win  love  :  "  believest  thou  aught  of  this  ? 

O  !  then  no  more 

My  heart  o'er  early  faded  dreams  of  bliss, 
Its  wail  shall  pour. 

Give  me  this  hope,  though  only  from  afar 

It  sheds  its  light, 
And  like  yon  dewy,  melancholy  star, 

With  tears  is  bright. 

Let  me  but  hope  a  heart  with  fondness  fraught. 

That  could  not   sin 
Against  its  worshipped  idol  e'en  in  thought, 

Thy  love   may  win. 

Let  me  but  hope  the  changeless  love  of  years, 

The  tender  care 
That  fain  would  die  to  save  thine  eye  from  tears, 

Thy  heart  may  share. 

Or  let  me  dream,  at  least,  that  when  no  more, 

My  voice  shall  meet 
The  ear  that  listens  only  to  think  o'er 

Tones  far  more  sweet  — 

When  never  more  my  weary  steps  of  pain 

Around  thee  move, 
When  loosed  forever  is  thy  heavy  chain  — 

"  Love  will  win  love." 


150  POEMS. 


SONG   OF  MORNING. 

COME,  I  come  from  the  fields  of  light ; 

My  herald-star  chases  the  shadows  of  night ; 

The  dew  of  the  evening  lies  thick  on  the  grass 
Still  gemming  the  pathway  my  footstep  must  pass  ; 
While  the  wild  flower  joyously  raises  its  head, 
And  breathes  its  rich  sweets  'neath  my  echoless   tread. 

O'er  gardens  just  waking  from  slumber  I  fling 
The  perfumes  of  heaven  from  my  noiseless  wing  ; 
My  breath  is  crisping  the  silent  lake, 
Till  its  gentle  wavelets  in  brightness  break  ; 
And  the  soft  air  is  mingled  with  music  and  glee, 
By  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the  voice  of  the  bee. 

But  man,  who  alone  of  all  creatures  may  raise 

To  the  glories  of  heaven  his  uplifted  gaze  — 

Is  joy  in  his  heart  ?  does  delight  fill  his  eye 

When  he  sees  my  glad  footsteps  in  brightness  pass  by? 

Like  the  song  of  the  bird  and  the  bee,  does  his  voice 

In  the  pride  of  new  life  and  new  vigor  rejoice  ? 

O,  no ;  for  too  often  my  earliest  glance 
But  rouses  his  soul  from  sleep's  bright-visioned  trance  ; 
And  coldly  he  turns  from  the  sweet  dreams  of  night 
To  the  splendors  that  waken  with  morning's  glad  light ; 
And  the  sunbeam  small  pleasure  to  him  can  impart, 
When  it  wakes  to  new  sorrows  his  slumbering  heart. 


THE  MORAVIAN  BURIAL-GROUND.  151 

How  often  has  burst  forth  the  weariful  sigh, 
As  the  bloom  and  the  freshness  of  morning  came  by, 
Outshining  the  light  of  the  student's  pale  lamp, 
But  chilling  the  ardor  no  darkness  could  damp  ; 
While  with  loathing  he  looks  on  the  glorious  ray 
That  calls  him  from  intellect's  treasures  away. 

How  oft  have  the  sweets  of  my  perfumed  breath 
Fanned  the  clustering  locks  on  the  forehead  of  death, 
And  played  in  the  folds  of  the  snow-white  vest 
That  encircled  the  form  for  the  earth-worm  dressed, 
Till  it  seemed  to  the  mourner's  bewildered  eye 
As  if  moved  by  the  life-pulse  again  strong  and  high  ! 

And  they  who  in  dreams  see  the  gentle  smile 

That  never  their  waking  thoughts  more  shall  beguile ; 

The  broken  in  health,  and  the  wearied  in  heart  — 

O,  joy  they  not  rather  to  see  me  depart  ? 

And  smile  they  not  more  at  night's  gathering  gloom, 

Since  another  day  brings  them  more  nigh  to  the  tomb  ? 


THE   MORAVIAN   BURIAL-GROUND. 

The  followirg  lines  are  an  attempt  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  simple  beauty  of  the 
Moravian  Burial-ground  at  Bethlehem,  Penn.  The  feelings  described  suggested 
themselves  on  the  spot,  and  the  incident  alluded  to  actually  occurred. 

'WAS  one  of  those  sweet  days  when  spring  awakes 
Her  gentlest  zephyrs  and  her  softest  light, 
Wooing  the  wild  flowers  in  the  sunny  brakes, 
And  winning  the  young  bird  to  joyous  flight; 


152  POEMS. 

While  rose  the  lulling  murmur  of  the  bee 
'Mid  the  sweet  sounds  of  Nature's  jubilee. 

Our  loitering  feet  unconsciously  we  turned 

Towards  a  green  and  solitary  lane ; 
A  pure,  calm  spirit  in  our  bosoms  burned, 

And  feelings  saddened,  though  unmixed  with  pain  : 
O  !  surely  we  were  then  in  fitting  mood 
To  ponder  on  the  grave's  dread  solitude. 

Through  a  low  gate  our  quiet  steps  we  bent ; 

Was  this  sweet,  lonely  spot  a  burial-place  ? 
Here  was  no  urn,  no  sculptured  monument, 

But  o'er  it  spring  had  shed  her  loveliest  trace ; 
For  the  bright  verdure  and  the  fragrant  bloom 
Of  the  wild  violet,  decked  each  smiling  tomb. 

A  lowly  mound  of  earth,  an  humble  stone, 

Traced  with  the  name  of  him  who  lay  beneath, 

A  name  still  dear  to  love,  though  never  known 
To  fame,  were  all  that  spoke  of  dreaded  death  ; 

Fresh     grass,    and    flowers,    and     scented    herbs    were 
there, 

Filling  with  brightness  earth,  with  odors  air. 

High  swelled  my  heart  as  'mid  those   graves  I  trod  ; 

I  felt  life's  nothingness  in  that  calm  hour  ; 
My  spirit  knew  the  presence  of  its  God, 

And  bowed  submissive  to  Almighty  power  ; 
While  humbly  now  I  deemed  I  ne'er  should  shrink 
To  drain  the  cup  that  earthly  love  must  drink. 


MORAVIAN'  BURIAL-GROUND.  153 

I  had   been  an  idolater  —  aye,  still 

My  heart  was  vowed  upon  an  earthly  shrine ; 

Though  checked  a  moment  by  that  holy  thrill, 
I  knew  my  bosom  never  could  resign 

Its  deep  idolatry  till  life  was  past  ; 

Had  I  not  cause  to  fear  Heaven's  frown  at  last  ? 

Filled  with  these  thoughts,  I  turned  e'en  from  the  brow 
That  most  I  loved,  to  hide  my  gushing   tears, 

And  gazing  on  the  humble  graves  where  low 
Lay  buried  many  a  love  of  other  years, 

I  threw  myself  beside  a  grassy  mound j 

With  reverence,  for  I  felt  'twas  holy  ground. 

For  there,  with  eyelids  closed  in  changeless  night, 
The  mother  and  her  sinless  infant  lay  ; 

In  the  same  hour  death  breathed  o'er  both  his  blight, 
And  in  one  pang  their  spirits  passed  away : 

The  all  of  mother's  feelings  she  had  known 

Were  the  keen  throe,  the  agony  alone. 

Alas  for  earthly  joy,  and  hope,  and  love, 

Thus  stricken  down  e'en  in  their  holiest  hour  ! 

What  deep,  heart- wringing  anguish  must  they  prove 
Who  live  to  weep  the  blasted  tree  and  flower ! 

O,  woe,  deep  woe,  to  earthly  love's  fond  trust, 

When  all  it  once  has  worshipped  lies  in  dust ! 

There  was  one  hillock  decked  beyond  the  rest, 
Where  rue,  and  thyme,  and  violets  were  sighing ; 

No  trace  of  earth  defaced  its  verdant  breast ; 
The  wild  bee  o'er  the  sunny  flowers  was  flying, 


154  POEMS. 

Or  hiding,  'mid  the  odorous  buds  and  leaves, 
Beneath  the  dewy  veil  the  evening  weaves. 

There  slept  the  patriarch  of  fourscore  years, 
Whose  long  life  like  an  April  day  had   closed 

In  smiles  and  sunshine  after  clouds  and  tears  ; 
Now  calm  in  death  his  aged  form  reposed ; 

While  oft  affection's  pearly  tears  bedewed 

The  flowers  that  decked  his  peaceful  solitude. 

Lo  !   while  we  gazed,  with  slow  and  noiseless  tread 
A  female  form  drew  nigh  ;  her  right  hand  bore 

A  water-urn  •  and  o'er  th'  unconscious  dead 
Lowly  she  bent,  its  freshening  dews  to  pour, 

Till  the  flowers  brightly  'neath  the  sun  gleamed  up, 

Each  bearing  a  rich  gem  within  its  cup. 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  he  who  slumbered  there 
Had  cast  aside  the  weight  of  clay,  and  yet 

His  grave  still  fondly  claimed  a  daughter's  care  ; 
Still  was  it  visited  with  deep  regret  : 

Such  was  the  love  of  hearts  o'er  which  no  trace 

Of  earth  had  passed  affection  to  efface. 

Then  with  tumultuous  feelings  all  subdued 
By  death's  undreaded  presence,  I  awoke 

My  song's  low  murmurs  in  that  solitude, 
And  thus  my  half-breathed  whispers  softly  broke  : 

When  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 
This  heart  shall   rest, 


THE  MINSTREL'S  LAST  SONG.        155 

O,  lay  me  where  spring-flowerets  bloom 
On  earth's  green  breast. 

But  ne'er  in  vaulted  chambers  lay 

My  lifeless  form ; 
Seek  not  of  such  poor,  worthless  prey 

To  cheat  the  worm. 

In  some  sweet  city  of  the  dead 

I  fain  would  sleep, 
Where  flowers  may  deck  my  narrow  bed, 

And  night-dews  weep. 

And  raise  not  the  sepulchral  urn 

To  mark  the  spot ; 
Enough  if  but  by  love  alone 

'Tis  ne'er  forgot. 


THE   MINSTREL'S   LAST   SONG. 

INCE   childhood's  hour 

Song  was  the  natural   language  of  my  heart 
O  let  me  pour  forth  all  its  thrilling  power 
Once  more  ere  I  depart. 


To  that  far  land 

Which  gave  my  spirit  birth  it  hastens  now  ; 
How  doth  it  long  its  pinions  to  expand, 

And  soar  to  Heaven's  high  brow. 


156  POEMS. 

How  doth  it  strive 

To  burst  from  all  its  earthly  bonds  away, 
Unheeding  all  the  fearful  pangs  that  rive 

Its  tenement  of  clay. 

Alas,  alas, 

Why  comes  thy  gentle  image,  my  sweet  wife, 
Slaying  my  spirit  in  the  darksome  pass 

That  lies  'twixt  death  and  life. 

Those  accents  dear 

Awoke  too  much  of  earthly  tenderness ; 
Life  has  too  many  charms  when  thou  art  near, 

My  lonely  heart  to  bless. 

Much  hast  thou  borne 

Of  sorrow  and  deep  suffering  since  thy  lot 
Was  joined  with  mine,  yet  meekly  hast  thou  worn 

Thy  chain,  and  murmured  not. 

The  smile  that  shone 
On  thy  sweet  lip  is  faded,  and  the  light 
That  sparkled  in  thy  star-like  eyes  is  gone  : 

My  love  has  been  thy  blight. 

I  would  have  poured 

My  life-blood  forth  like  water  but  to  gain 
One  hour  of  joy  for  thee,  my  own    adored, 

Or  spare  thy  heart  one  pain. 


THE  MINSTREL'S  LAST  SONG.  157 

Yet  my  hand   fixed 

Within  thy  gentle  breast  grief's  deathless  sting, 
And  for  thy  lip  affliction's  chalice  mixed, 

Drawn  from  my  life's  dark  spring. 

Mine  eyes  are  dim  ; 

The  dews  of  death  are  chill  upon  my  brow, 
The  frosts  of  death  are  stealing  o'er  each  limb, 

And  the  grave  calls  me  now. 

Aye,  this  is  death ; 

For  never  yet  my  heart  so  faintly  stirred 
When  on  my  cheek  I  felt  thy  balmy  breath, 

Or  thy  sweet  accents  heard. 

When  I  am  laid 

Within  the  earth,  to  the  dark  worm  a  prey, 
Let  not  my  image  from  thy  memory  fade, 

Like  April  clouds,  away. 

The  strain  is  done  ; 

My  swan-like  song  is  ended ;  let  me   dwell 
Amid  thy  kindliest  thoughts,  my  gentle  one  j 

One  kiss,  —  sweet   love,  farewell. 


158  POEMS. 


"PRAY   FOR   YOUR  QUEEN." 

"  Endue  her  plenteously  with  heavenly  gifts  :  grant  her,  in  health  and  wealth,  long 
to  live,  ....  And,  finally,  after  this  life,  may  she  attain  everlasting  joy  and  felicity, 
through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord.  Amen."  —  Liturgy. 


RAY  for  your  Queen  ;  upon  your  sovereign's  brow 
Youth  lingers  still ;  nor  has  experience  there 
Written  her  duties  in  the  lines  of  care. 
The  hand  that  holds  fair  England's   sceptre  now 
Is  but  a  gentle  maiden's  ;   can  it  clasp 
That  mighty  symbol  with  a  steady  grasp? 
Dark  clouds  are  lowering  o'er  our  sunny  sky  ; 
If  they  should  gather,  could  that  fragile  form 
"  Ride  on  the  whirlwind,  and  direct  the  storm  ?  " 
Wisdom,  strength,  energy  are  from  on  high  ; 

Wouldst  thou  enrich  her  with  these  blessings?    Pray! 
One  reigns  above,  whom  heaven  and  earth  obey. 

Pray  for  your  Queen  :   hers  is  a  woman's  heart, 

And  woman's  perils  lurk  around  her  way  ; 

Pleasure  may  lead  her  heedless  steps  astray, 
Or  flattery  soothe  when  conscience  wings  its  dart. 

Love,  that  sweet  well-spring  of  domestic  joy, 

Scarce  rises  in  a  court  without  alloy, 
And  woman's  sorrows  may  be  hers  to  share  ; 

Sunshine  has  beamed  upon  her  path  thus  far, 

But  this  bright  scene  one  sudden  storm  would  mar, 
And  England's  rose  might  droop,  though  now  so  fair. 

Say,  wouldst  thou  shield  her  from  these  perils  ?    Pray  ! 

Strength  shall  be  granted   equal  to  her  day. 


CHARADE.  159 

CHARADE. 

(MOCKING-BIRD.) 

HE  boldest  heart  that  ever  yet 

Was  cased  in  mortal  clay, 
Rather  than  hear  my  first  would  face 
An  armed  host's  array ; 
For  by  brute  sufferance  alone 
The  body's  pains  are  borne, 
But  e'en  the  mind's  unbending  strength 
Quails  'neath  the  sting  of  scorn. 

My  second  comes  wilh  all  things  fair, 

Spring  sunshine,  dews,  and  flowers, 
And  though  it  shuns  the  leafless  bough, 

Loves  well  the  summer  bowers. 
Full  many  love  its  matin  song, 

But  more  its  vesper  hymn, 
When  twilight's  gentle  breezes  wake 

And  the  sunset's  light  grows  dim. 

My  whole  is  born  in  southern   clime, 

Where  summer  rules  the  year  ; 
Oft  in  the  wilderness  its  strains 

Delight  the  traveller's  ear. 
But  like  a  patriot,  stern  and  true, 

It  brooks  no  foreign  shore, 
And  ere  it  reach  a  stranger  land 

Its  life  and  song  are  o'er. 


160  POEMS. 

BALLAD. 

"  La  rose  cueillie  et  le  coeur  gagn6  ne  plaisent  qu'un  jour." 

'HE  maiden  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 

Her  heart  was  light  and  free, 
And  ever  in  cheerful  song  broke  forth 
Her  bosom's  harmless  glee. 
Her  song  was  in  mockery  of  love, 

And  oft  I  heard  her  say, 
"  The  gathered  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 
Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

I  looked  on  the  maiden's  rosy  cheek, 

And  her  lip  so  full  and  bright, 
And  I  sighed  to  think  that  the  traitor  love, 

Should  conquer  a  heart  so  light : 
But  she  thought  not  of  future  days  of  woe, 

While  she  caroled  in  tones  so  gay, 
"  The  gathered  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

A  year  passed  on,  and  again  I  stood 

By  the  humble  cottage-door  ; 
The  maid  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 

But  her  look  was  blithe  no  more ; 
The  big  tear  stood  in  her  down-cast  eye, 

And  with  sighs  I  heard  her  say, 
"  The  gathered  rose  and  the  stolen  heart 

Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 


TIME.  161 

O  !  well  I  knew  what  had  dimmed  her  eye, 

And  made  her  cheek  so  pale  ; 
The  maid  had  forgotten  her  early  song, 

While  she  listened  to  love's  soft  tale. 
She  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  his  poisoned  cup, 

It  had  wasted  her  life  away : 
And  the  stolen  heart,  like  the  gathered  rose, 

Had  charmed  but  for  a  day. 


TIME. 

"  We  take  no  note  of  time  but  by  its  loss." 

jOLL  on,  roll  on,  unfathomable  Ocean  ! 

On  whose  dark  surface  years  are  but  as  waves* 
Bearing  us  onward  with  resistless  motion, 
Till  in  some  deep  abyss  we  find  our  graves  ; 
While  scarce  a  bubble  breaks  to  mark  the  spot 
Where  sunk  the  bark  that  bore  a  mortal's  lot. 

What  myriad  heaps  of  countless  wealth  have  lain 
Entombed  for  centuries  beneath  thy  tide ! 

Ruins  of  empires,  kingdoms  reared  in  vain, 
Temples  and  palaces,  —  man's  faith  and  pride  ; 

Trophies  of  times  when  things  of  mortal  birth 

Amid  their  fellows  walked  like  gods  on  earth. 

What  is  the  lore  of  ages  ?    Wrecks  upthrown, 

Torn  fragments  of  the  wealth  thou  hast  despoiled, 


1 62  POEMS. 

Records  of  nations  to  our  race  unknown  — 

Men  who,  like  us,  once  lived,  and  joyed,  and  toiled, 
Yet  whom  as  men  we  know  not,  for  their  kings 
Alone  flit  by  us  —  dim  and  shadowy  things. 

And  what  is  science  but  a  beacon  light, 
Revolving  ever  in  the  same  small  round, 

Shedding  upon  the  wave  a  lustre  bright, 

Yet  scarcely  seen  beyond  its  narrow  bound  ? 

'While  o'er  the  trackless  waste  its  shifting  ray 

Too  often  leads  the  voyager  astray. 

What  is  philosophy?     A  chart  ill  traced, 

An  antique  map  drawn  by  Conjecture's  skill; 

There  many  a  fair  Utopia  has  graced 

The  vacant  canvas  which  truth  could  not  fill  : 

Like  vain  researches  for  the  fount  of  youth 

Must  be  man's  quest  for  speculative  truth. 

Vainly,  O  Time,  we  seek  thy  mystic  source, 
We  hope,  believe,  but  nothing  can  we  know ; 

And  still  more  vainly  would  we  trace  thy  course, 
And  learn  what  shore  receives  thy  ebbs  and  flow. 

We  know  it  is  Eternity  —  what  then  ? 

What  is  Eternity  to  finite  men  ? 

Our  faculties  all  "  cabined,  cribbed,  confined," 
We  bear  earth's  soil  upon  our  spirit's  wings, 

And  but  by  sensual  images  the  mind 

Such  abstract  fancies  to  its  vision  brings  ; 

Not  all  a  Newton's  energy  could  teach 

Our  fettered  souls  infinitude  to  reach. 


NAPOLEON  AT  SAINT  HELENA.  163 

Years  multiplied  by  years,  till  feeble  thought 
Grows  dizzy  —  lost  in  calculation,  maze, 

Such  are  our  vague  imaginings  ;   we've  sought 
Eternity,  and  found  but  length  of  days. 

Not  till  we  lay  aside  this  weight  of  clay, 

Can  our  dim  sight  bear  truth's  refulgent  ray. 

Ocean  of  Time  !  thy  tiniest  wavelet  bears 
To  fatal  wreck  some  richly  laden  bark : 

O  !  but  for  that  bright  star  in  heaven  which  wears 
A  brighter  glory  when  the  storm  grows  dark, 

But  for  the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  how  should  we 

Direct  our  course  o'er  thy  tempestuous  sea  ? 


NAPOLEON  AT  SAINT  HELENA.1 

FOR  thy  wings, 

Monarch  of  air  !  that  I  might  mount  on  high, 

And  find  no  meaner  barrier  than  the  sky ; 

My  spirit  springs 

Beyond  the  ties  that  bind  it  down  to  earth, 
And  fain,  like  thee,  would  soar,  to  seek  its  place  of  birth. 

Away,  away 

To  the  high  goal  where  all  my  wishes  lead, 
Thought  rushes  onward  with  a  whirlwind's  speed  ; 

Curse  on  the  clay 

1  Suggested  by  an  engraving,  which  represented  him  alone  on  the  sea-shore,  watch - 
ng  the  flight  of  an  eagle. 


1 64  POEMS. 

That,  like  a  fetter,  cumbers  my  soul's  flight, 
And   chains  me  at  the  foot  of  fame's    cloud-compassed 
height ! 

Bound  to  the  rock 

While  vulture  passions  all  my  being  waste, 
Forbidden  e'en  the  stirring  joy  to  taste, 

Of  danger's  shock  ; 

So  I  am  doomed  the  Titan's  pain  to  know, 
Without  the  conscious  pride  that  banished  half  his  woe. 

How  have  I  toiled 

To  blend  my  country's  glory  with  my  fame, 
Till  both  should  be  eternal !     Shame,  deep  shame, 

To  be  thus  foiled  ! 

Thus  doomed  to  see  the  robe  of  purple  torn 
From  off  her  giant  limbs,  and  trampled  on  in  scorn. 

Am  I  not  he 

Whose  strong  right  arm  the  bolt  of  vengeance  hurled  ? 
Whose  name  like  thunder  shook  the  echoing  world? 

How  can  it  be 

That  like  a  mean  and  slave-born  hind  I  lie 
Thus  manacled  and  spurned,  forbidden  e'en  to  die  ! 

O  God  of  heaven  ! 

Let  me  not  perish -thus  beneath  thine  ire  ; 
Where  sleep  thy  lightnings  ?  —  strike !  —  by  thine  own  fire 

Be  my  heart  riven  ! 

But  leave  me  not  thus  piecemeal  to  decay, 
'Reft  of  the  power  to  drive  the   earthworms  from   their 
prey. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE.       165 


LAMENT  OF  THE  EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE. 

HE  fearful  strife  of  feeling  now  is  o'er, 
The  bitter  pang  can  rend  my  heart  no  more  ; 
*£&  A  martyr's  spirit  now  within  me  burns, 

And  love,  that  spurns 

All  thought  of  self,  is  waking,  till  its  power 
Can  conquer  e'en  the  anguish  of  this  hour. 

Yes  ;  for  thy  sake  I  can  resign  e'en  thee, 
My  noble  husband  !  though  there  still  may  be 
Enough  of  woman's  weakness  in  my  heart 

To  bid  tears  start, 

Yet  not  one  murmur  of  reproach  shall  swell 
Amid  the  accents  of  my  last  farewell. 

I  loved  thee  in  thy  lowliness,  ere  fame 
Had  shed  a  halo  round  Napoleon's  name ; 
In  the  veiled  lightnings  of  that  falcon  eye 

I  read  the  high 

And  godlike  aspirations  of  a  mind, 
Whose  loftiest  aim  was  power  to  bless  mankind. 

And  when  thy  name  through  all  the  world  was  known, 
When  monarchs  quailed  before  thy  triple  crown, 
When  queens  beheld  me  in  mine  hour  of  pride, 

Thy  glorious  bride, 

No  selfish  vanity  my  heart  could  swell  — 
I  shared  a  throne,  but  would  have  shared  a  cell. 


1 66  POEMS. 

Like  thine,  my  soul  was  formed  for  lofty  fate  ; 

I  loved  thee  as  the  eagle  loves  its  mate  ; 

Nor  did  I  seek  with  borrowed  strength  to  climb 

The  height  sublime 

Where  thou  hadst  built  thine  eyrie ;  'twas  for  me 
Enough  that  thou  wert  there  —  I  followed  thee. 

And  in  thy  toils,  too,  have  I  borne  a  part; 

In  scenes  where  might  have  quailed  man's  sterner  heart, 

When  dark  Rebellion  reared  his  hydra  crest, 

My  heart  carest 

And  soothed  the  dreaded  monster  till  he  smiled, 
And  bowed  him  down  submissive  as  a  child. 

Though  all  unskilled  the  warrior's  brand  to  wield, 
Yet  went  my  spirit  with  thee  to  the  field 
Where  charging  squadrons  met  in  fierce  array  ; 

Nor  'mid  the  fray 

Awoke  one  terror  for  a  husband's  life  — 
Such  fear  were  idle  in  Napoleon's  wife. 

Alas  !  how  has  my  pride  become  my  shame  ! 
I  saw  thee  mount  the  rugged  steep  of  fame, 
And  joyed  to  think  how  soon  thy  mighty  soul 

Would  reach  its  goal ; 

But  never  dreamed,  ambitious  though  thou  art, 
That  thy  last  step  would  be  upon  my  heart. 

Vain  sacrifice  !  no  second  of  thy  race 
Shall  wield  the  world's  dread  sceptre  in  thy  place  ; 
Rude  Nature  might  have  taught  how  vain  must  be 
Such  hope  to  thee : 


STANZAS.  167 

For  lofty  minds  but  with  like  minds  should  wed  ; 
Not  in  the  dove's  soft  nest  are  eaglets  bred. 

Ours  was  the  soul's  high  union ;  and  the  pain 
That  wears  my  spirit  down,  breaks  not  its  chain  ; 
No  earthly  power  such  bonds  can  e'er  untwine; 

And  I   am  thine, 

As  fondly,  proudly  thine  in  exile  now, 
As  when  thy  diadem  begirt  my  brow. 


STANZAS 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    DUKE    OF    REICHSTADT. 

rEIR  of  that  name 

Which  shook  with  sudden  terror  the  far  earth, 
Child  of  strange  destinies  e'en  from  thy  birth, 
When  kings  and  princes  round  thy  cradle  came, 
And  gave  their  crowns,  as  playthings,  to  thine  hand  — 
Thine  heritage  the  spoils  of  many  a  land  ! 

How  were  the  schemes 
Of  human  foresight  baffled  in  thy  fate, 
Thou  victim  of  a  parent's  lofty  state  ! 

What  glorious  visions  filled  thy  father's  dreams, 
When  first  he  gazed  upon  thy  infant  face, 
And  deemed  himself  the  Rodolph  of  his  race  ! 


1 68  POEMS. 

Scarce  had  thine  eyes 

Beheld  the  light  of  day,  when  thou  wert  bound 
With  power's  vain  symbols,  and  thy  young  brow  crowned 

With  Rome's  imperial  diadem  —  the  prize 
From  priestly  princes  by  thy  proud  sire  won, 
To  deck  the  pillow  of  his  cradled  son. 

Yet  where  is  now 

The  sword  that  flashed  as  with  a  meteor  light, 
And  led  on  half  the  world  to  stirring  fight, 

Bidding  whole  seas  of  blood  and  carnage  flow  ? 
Alas  !  when  foiled  on  his  last  battle  plain, 
Its  shattered  fragments  forged  thy  father's  chain. 

Far  worse  thy  fate 

Than  that  which  doomed  him  to  the  barren  rock  ; 
Through  half  the  universe  was  felt  the  shock 

When  down  he  toppled  from  his  high  estate  ; 
And  the  proud  thought  of  still  acknowledged  power, 
Could  cheer  him  e'en  in  that  disastrous  hour. 

But  thou,  poor  boy, 

Hadst  no  such  dreams  to  cheat  the  lagging  hours  ; 
Thy   chains   still   galled,  though   wreathed   with   fairest 
flowers ; 

Thou  hadst  no  images  of  by-past  joy, 
No  visions  of  anticipated  fame, 
To  bear  thee  through  a  life  of  sloth  and  shame. 

And  where  was  she 
Whose  proudest  title  was  Napoleon's  wife  ? 


STANZAS.  169 

She  who  first  gave,  and  should  have  watched  thy  life, 

Trebling  a  mother's  tenderness  for  thee. 
Despoiled  heir  of  empire  !  on  her  breast 
Did  thy  young  head  repose  in  its  unrest  ? 

No  !    round  her  heart 

Children  of  humbler,  happier  lineage  twined  ; 
Thou  couldst  but  bring  dark  memories  to  mind, 

Of  pageants  where  she  bore  a  heartless  part : 
She  who  shared  not  her  monarch-husband's  doom, 
Cared  little  for  her  first-born's  living  tomb. 

Thou  art  at  rest, 

Child  of  Ambition's  martyr !     Life  had  been 
To  thee  no  blessing,  but  a  dreary  scene 

Of  doubt  and  dread  and  suffering  at  the  best ; 
For  thou  wert  one  whose  path  in  these  dark  times, 
Must  lead  to  sorrows  —  it  might   be  to  crimes. 

Thou  art  at  rest ! 

The  idle  sword  has  worn  its  sheath  away, 
The  spirit  has  consumed  its  bonds  of  clay  ; 

And  they  who  with  vain  tyranny  comprest 
Thy  soul's  high  yearnings,  now  forget  their  fear, 
And  fling  Ambition's  purple  o'er  thy  bier  ! 


170  POEMS. 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

I  HERE  was  no  beauty  on  thy  brow, 

No  softness  in  thine  eye, 
Thy  cheek  wore  not  the  rose's  glow, 
Thy  lip  the  ruby's  dye ; 
The  charms  that  make  a  woman's  pride 

Have  never  been  thine  own  ; 
Heaven  had  to  thee  these  gifts  denied, 
In  which  earth's  bright  ones  shone. 

Far  higher,  holier  gifts  were  thine  — 

Mind,  intellect  were  given, 
Till  thou  wert  as  a  holy  shrine, 

Where  men  might  worship  Heaven. 
Yes ;  woman  as  thou  wert,  thy  word 

Could  make  the  strong  man  start, 
And  thy  lip's  magic  power  has  stirred 

Ambition's  iron  heart. 

The  charm  of  eloquence  ;  the  skill 

To  wake  each  secret  string, 
And  from  the  bosom's  chords  at  will 

Life's  mournful  music  bring  ; 
The  o'ermastering  strength  of  mind,  which  sways 

The  haughty  and  the  free, 
Whose  might  earth's  mightiest  one  obeys, — 

These  —  these  were  given  to  thee. 

Thou  hadst  a  prophet's  eye  to  pierce 
The  depths  of  man's  dark  soul, 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  171 

And  bring  back  tales  of  passions  fierce, 

O'er  which  its  dim  waves  roll ; 
And  all  too  deeply  hadst  thou  learned 

The  lore  of  woman's  heart  ; 
The  thoughts  in  thine  own  breast  that  burned, 

Taught  thee  that  mournful  part. 

Thine  never  was  a  woman's  dower 

Of  tenderness  and  love  ; 
Thou  couldst  tame  down  the  eagle's  power, 

But  couldst  not  chain  the  dove. 
O  !  love  is  not  for  such  as  thee  ; 

The  gentle  and  the  mild, 
The  beautiful  thus  blest  may  be, 

But  never  Fame's  proud  child. 

When  'mid  the  halls  of  state  alone, 

In  queenly  "pride  of  place," 
The  majesty  of  mind  thy  throne, 

Thy  sceptre,  mental  grace,  — 
Then  was  thy  glory  felt ;  and  thou 

Didst  triumph  in  that  hour, 
When  men  could  turn  from  Beauty's  brow 

In  tribute  to  thy  power. 

And  yet  a  woman's  heart  was  thine  ; 

Xo  dream  of  fame  can  fill 
The  bosom  which  must  vainly  pine 

For  sweet  Affection's  thrill ; 
And  O  !  what  pangs  thy  spirit  wrung 

E'en  in  thine  hour  of  pride, 


172  POEMS. 

When  all  could  list  Love's  wooing  tongue 
Save  thee,  bright  Glory's  bride. 

Corinna  !    thine  own  hand  has  traced 

Thy  melancholy  fate  ; 
Though  by  earth's  noblest  triumphs  graced, 

Bliss  waits  not  on  the  great ; 
Only  in  lowly  places  sleep 

Life's  flowers  of  sweet  perfume, 
And  they  who  climb  Fame's  mountain  steep 

Must  mourn  their  own  high  doom. 


THE   ANNIVERSARY. 

ADDRESSED     TO    A     FRIEND     ON     HIS     BIRTHDAY. 

SUFFER  not  a  cloud  thy  brow  to  darken, 
Nor  let  thy  spirit  in  deep  sadness  hearken 

To  the  low  knell  of  thy  departing  hours  ; 
Thou  shouldst  not  grieve  that  Time  still  onward  fleeteth, 
For  when  thy  steps  the  kindly  gray-beard  meeteth, 

He  pauses  there  to  fling  his  freshest  flowers. 
Measured  by  thought,  thou  art  of  patriarch  age, 

Measured  by  feeling,  thou   art  yet  a  boy  : 
And  as  thou  ponderest  on  life's  o'erpast  page, 

Thou  seest  each  sorrow  mated  by  a  joy. 
Why  shouldst  thou,  then,  at  Time's   swift   flight  repine, 
When  youth,  and  age,  and  hope,  to  bless  thy  years  com 
bine  ? 


THE   CONSUMPTIVE.  173 

Wouldst  thou  recall  thy  dreams  of  early  thought, 
The  wild  pulsation  of  a  heart  o'erwrought 

With  its  vain  yearnings  for  a  vague  ideal  ? 
Wouldst  thou,  again,  crowd  years   into  a  day  ? 
Again  resign  thy  soul  to  passion's  sway, 

And  grasp  at  rainbow  joys,  bright  but  unreal? 
Rather  rejoice  that  Time  could  thus    accord 

His  soothing  power  to  still  each  fierce  emotion, 
And  bless  the  Heaven-directed  hand  that  poured 

The  oil  of  peace  on  youth's  tempestuous  ocean, 
And  pointed  out  a  beacon  light  to  guide 
Thy  richly-freighted  bark  safe  o'er  the  treacherous  tide. 


THE  CONSUMPTIVE. 

RING   flowers,  fresh   flowers,  the   fairest   spring 

can  yield  — 

The  poetry  of  earth,  o'er  every  field 
Scattered  in  rich   display  ; 

Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  around  my  dying  bed, 
The  sweetness  of  the  sunny  south  to  shed, 
Ere  I  am  called  away. 

Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  from  every  sheltered  glade  ; 
I  know  their  brilliant  beauties  soon  will  fade 

Beneath  my  feverish  breath, 

But  their  bright  hues  seem  to  my  wondering  thought 
With  promises  of  bliss  and  beauty  fraught, 

Winning  my  heart  from  death. 


1 74  POEMS. 

Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers  ;  ere  they  again  shall  bloom 
I  shall  be  lying  in  the    narrow  tomb, 

Mouldering  in  cold  decay. 

Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  that  I  may  cheer  my  heart 
With  pleasant  images,  ere  I  depart 

To  tread  the  grave's  dark  way. 

Bring  fruits,  rich  fruits,  that  blush  on  every  bough 
Bending  above  the  traveller's  weary  brow, 

And  wooing  him  to  taste  ; 

Bring  fruits  ;  methinks  I  never  knew  how  sweet 
The  joys  that  every  day  our  senses  greet, 

Till  now,  in  life's  swift  waste. 

Bring  fruits,  rich  fruits  ;  earth's  fairest  gifts    are  vain 
To  minister  relief  to  the  dull  pain 

That  steals  upon   my  heart. 

Yet  bring  me  fruits  and  flowers ;  they  still  have  power 
To  cheer,  if  not  prolong  life's  little  hour  ; 

Bring  flowers  ere  I  depart. 


THE   WIDOW'S   WOOER. 

E  woos  me  in  the  honeyed  words 

Which  women  love  to  hear, 
Those  gentle  flatteries,  that  fall 
So  sweet  on  every  ear  ; 
He  tells  me  that  my  face  is  fair, 
Too  fair  for  grief  to  shade, 


THE    WIDOWS    WOOER.  175 

My  cheek,  he  says,  was  never  meant 
In  sorrow's  gloom  to  fade. 

He  stands  beside  me  when  I  sing 

The  songs  of  other  days, 
And  whispers  in  love's  thrilling  tones, 

The  words  of  heartfelt  praise  ; 
And  often  in  my  eyes  he  looks 

Some  answering  love  to  see  ; 
In  vain  —  he  only  there   can  read 

The  faith  of  memory. 

He  little  knows  what  thoughts  awake 

With  every  gentle  word, 
How  by  his  every  tone  the  founts 

Of  tenderness  are  stirred ; 
The  visions  of  my  youth  return, 

Joys  far  too  bright  to  last, 
And  while  he  speaks  of  future  bliss, 

I  think  but  of  the  past. 

Like  lamps  in  Eastern  sepulchres, 

Amid  my  heart's  deep  gloom 
Affection  sheds  its  only  light 

Upon  my  husband's  tomb  ; 
And,  as  those  lamps,  if  brought  once  more 

To  upper  air,  grow  dim, 
So  my  heart's  love  is  cold    and  dead 

Unless  it  glow  for  him. 


1 76  POEMS. 

LINES 

ADDRESSED    TO    A     FRIEND    ON     HER    DEPARTURE    FOR 
ENGLAND. 

[FAR,  afar  o'er  the  dark  blue  tide, 
To  a  distant  home  thou  art   borne,  fair   bride ; 
We  miss  thy  voice  'mid  the  tones  of  mirth 
That  waken  around  our  cheerful  hearth ; 
There's  a  void  in  our  social  circle  now, 
We  have  lost  the  smile  of  thy  sunny  brow  ; 
Thou  art  gone  from  us,    and  we  vainly  sigh 
For  the  pleasant  light  of  thy  loving  eye. 

Thou  art  gone  from  us,  on  the   mighty  sea, 
Where  the  billows  are  rolling  all  tameless  and  free, 
Thou  art  gazing  now  with  unquailing  eye 
And  unblenching  cheek,  for  thy  lover  is  nigh  : 
E'en  the  quickened  pulses  of  fear  are  stilled 
When  with  deep  devotion  the  heart  is  filled  ; 
And  this  has  nerved  thee,  fair  bride,  to  part 
From  the  matchless  love  of  a  mother's  heart. 

A  father  with  quivering  lip  may  press 

On  thy  snowy  forehead  his  fond  caress  ; 

A  brother  in  sadness  may  say  farewell 

To  the  gentle  being  long  loved  so  well  ; 

And  a  sister's  eye  may  be  dimmed  with   tears 

To  lose  the  friend   of  her  early  years  ; 

Yet  time  will  the  course  of  their  feelings  stem, 

But  a  mother's  feelings  !  —  O,  search  not  them. 


STANZAS,  I 

Thou  art  gone  from  us,  and  though  love  will   keep 

His  vigils  o'er  thee,  we  yet  must  weep  : 

We  know  that  a  blissful   lot  is  thine, 

V^et  bereft  of  thy  presence  our  hearts  must  pine. 

Farewell,  beloved  one  ;  when  far  away 

Through  England's  green  valleys  thy  footsteps  stray, 

0,  think  of  the  friends  who  are  praying  for  thee, 

In  thy  native  home  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea. 


STANZAS. 

"  How  have  you  thought  of  me  ?  " 

'O\V  have  I  thought  of  thee?    As  flies 

The  dove  to  seek  her  mate, 
Trembling  lest  some  rude  hand  has   made 
Her  sweet  home  desolate ; 
Thus  doth  my  bosom  seek  in  thine 
The  only  heart  that  throbs  with  mine. 

How  have  I  thought  of  thee  ?    As  turns 

The  flower  to  meet  the  sun, 
E'en  though,  when  clouds  and  storms  arise, 

It  be  not  shone  upon  ; 
Thus,  dear  one,  in  thine  eye  I  see 
The  only  light  that   beams  for  me. 

How  have  I  thought  of  thee  ?      As  thinks 
The  mariner  of  home, 

12 


178  POEMS. 

When  doomed  o'er  many  a  weary  waste 

Of  waters  yet  to  roam  ; 
Thus  doth  my  spirit  turn  to  thee, 
My  guiding  star  o'er  life's  wild  sea. 

How  have  I  thought  of  thee  ?    As  bends 

The  Persian  at  the  shrine 
Of  his  resplendent  god  to  see 

His  earliest  glories  shine  ; 
Thus  doth  my  spirit  bow  to  thee, 
My  heart's  own  radiant  deity. 


STANZAS. 

LOOKED  on  the   face   of  the   summer-decked 

earth, 
With    its   gorgeous   herbage,    its    bright-hued 

flowers, 
And  it  smiled  as  fair  as  when  first  its  birth 

Marked  young  creation's  hours  : 
But  a  cloud  passed  over  the  sunny  sky, 
And  the  wind  arose  with  a  wailing  cry, 
Like  a  feeble  infant's  half-uttered  moan, 
Yet  gathering  strength  as  it  speeded  on, 
Till  the  trees  that  lifted  their  trunks  so  high, 
Like  columns  supporting  the  vaulted  sky, 
Were  borne  like  gossamer  threads  on  the  blast, 
And  earth  was  laid  bare  as  the  storm  swept  past. 


STANZAS.  179 

I  looked  on  the  ocean  ;  each  little  wave 
Leaped  gladly  up  'neath  the  sunny  ray, 

And  the  music  hid  in  each   secret  cave 
Awoke  with  its  magic  lay : 

But  the  tempest  arose  with  its  voice  of  might 

And  summoned  the  waves  to  a  fearful  fight ; 

Like  evil  spirits  each  dark  cloud  came, 

Each  hurling  its  red  bolt  of  living  flame. 

Then  wildly  to  combat  the  elements  rushed, 

Till,  spent  with  its  fury,  the  tempest  was  hushed  ; 

Nor  left  one  trace  of  its  madness  behind, 

Save  the  throb  of  the  ocean,  the  wail  of   the  wind. 

I  turned  to  look  on  a  nobler  sight  — 
The  glorious  tablet  of  manhood's  brow, 

Still  marked  with  the  impress  of  Heaven's  own  light, 
Though  earth-stained  and  faded  now. 

That  brow  was  writhed  with  its  thoughts  of  pain, 

And  passion  had  swollen  each  starting  vein ; 

More  fearful  the  light  of  that  lurid  eye 

Than  the  flashing  of  swords  as  they  gleam  on  high,  — 

Till  passion,  tamed  by  itself,  grew  mild, 

And  the  strong  man  wept  like  a  wayward  child. 

O  what  is  the  madness  of  earth  and  seas, 

To  the  fearful  fury  of  storms  like  these  ? 

The  tempests  of  nature  at  length  find  rest, 

But  when  sleep  the  storms  of  the  human  breast  ? 


180  POEMS. 


ELEGIAC    STANZAS. 

hast  left  us,  and  forever ! 
The  light  of  those  sweet  eyes 
Will  beam  upon    us  never, 
Till  we  meet  above  the  skies. 
Life's  sunshine  was  around  thee, 

The  world  looked  glad  and  bright, 
And  the  ties  of  love  that  bound  thee 

Might  have  stayed  thy  spirit's  flight  ; 
But  the  bonds  that  earth  entwineth 

Are  all  too  weak  to  stay, 
When  the  far-off  heaven  shineth, 
The  spirit's  upward  way. 

Thou  hast  left  us,  and  forever  ! 

Thy  smile  of  quiet  mirth, 
Thy  low,  sweet  voice  shall  never 

Soothe  our  aching  hearts  on  earth. 
The  joys  thy  presence  cherished, 

Like  morning  dreams  have  fled, 
And  many  a  fair  hope  perished 

Upon  thy  narrow  bed. 
For  the  love  that  we  have  borne  thee 

Thy  loss  we  needs  must  weep, 
Yet,  even  while  we  mourn  thee, 

We  envy  thee  thy  sleep. 


THE  LAST  VIOLET.  181 


THE   LAST  VIOLET. 

I'M  weary  of  biding  the  pitiless  blast, 
I'm  weary  of  lingering  the  lonely,  the  last ; 
Too    long    I    have  pined  for   the   soft   summer 

shower, 

And  the  sunbeam  to  waken  each  slumbering   flower ; 
Too  long  I  have  drooped  o'er  the  leaf-covered  bed, 
Where  my  kindred  so  early  lay  withered  and  dead. 

In  vain  my  rich  treasures  of  fragrance  I  fling, 
They  mingle  not  now  with  the  breezes  of  spring ; 
Too  rude  are  the  rough  blasts  of  winter  to  bear 
Such  perfume  as  gladdens  the  mild  summer  air ; 
And  the  violet,  the  pride  of  the  spring-time,  soon   dies 
Unknown  and  unwept,  'neath  December's  dark  skies. 

0  !  better,  far  better  'twould  be  could  I  fade 
'Mid  the  clustering  locks  of  some  pitying  maid  ; 
But  I  listen  in  vain  for  the  echoing  tread 

Of  the  young  and  the  gay  round  my  verdureless  bed, 
And  too  long  I  have  waited  the  hand  that  might  save 
My  tempest-bowed  form  from  a  snow-hidden  grave. 

Thou  art  come,  thou  art  come  ;  aye,  I  know  thee  now, 

By  the  silent  step  and  the  thoughtful   brow, 

By  the  calm,  sweet  smile  on  the  lip  which  tells 

Of  a  soul  that  in  peace  and  purity  dwells : 

By  the  tenderness  glassed  in  the  depths  of  thine  eye, 

1  know  thou  wilt  not  pass  the  last  violet  by. 


1 82  POEMS. 


SONG. 

•HEN  'mid  the  festive  scene  we  meet, 

To  joyous  bosoms   dear, 
Though  other  voices  fall  more  sweet 
Upon  thy  listening  ear, 
Yet  scorn  not  thou  my  ruder  tone  ; 
O  !  think  my  heart  is  all  thine  own, 
And  love  me  still. 

When  o'er  young  Beauty's  cheek  of  rose 

Thine  eye  delighted  strays, 
Half  proud  to  watch  the  blush  that  glows 

Beneath  thine  ardent  gaze  ; 
O  !  think  that  but  for  sorrow's  blight 
My  pallid  cheek  had  yet  been  bright, 

And  love  me  still. 


LINES    ON  AN  OLD  PICTURE  OF  A  MONKISH 
STUDENT  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 

IRAVE  old  Student !  oft  ere  now 
I've  gazed  upon  thy  placid  brow, 
And  little  thought  thou  wouldst  have   power 

To  cheer  full  many  a  languid  hour ; 

But  now,  while  on  my  couch  I  rest, 

With  pain  and  weariness  opprest, 

Thy  calm,  still  brow  above  me  bends, 

And  seems  like  some  familiar  friend's. 


LINES  ON  AN  OLD  PICTURE.  183 

Grave  old  Student,  time  has  laid 
A  gentle  hand  upon  thy  head  ; 
That  brow  and  form  still  wear  the  trace 
Of  manly  beauty,  early  grace : 
Thy  hand  is  marked  by  time's  dark  stain, 
And  swoln  is  each  blue  starting  vein, 
Yet  still  a  touch  of  beauty  lingers 
Upon  those  well-turned,  slender  fingers ; 
That  face  just  lifted  from  the  page, 
Though  marked  by  the  deep  lines  of  age, 
And  furrowed,  it  may  be,  with  cares, 
Still  intellect's  high  beauty  wears. 

Grave  old  Student,  has  thy  mind 
New  and  precious  truths  divined  ? 
Or  art  thou  still  pondering  o'er 
Knowledge  ofttimes  conned  before  ? 
Pure  and  hallowed  thought  lies  hid 
'Neath  thy  dark  eye's  down-cast  lid  ; 
Thou  a'rt  one  whom  time  has  found 
No  mere  cumberer  of  the  ground. 

Grave  old  Student,  while  I  gaze 
Fancy  brings  back  other  days, 
When  learning,  hid  in  cloistered  nook, 
Beneath  the  stole  concealed  her  book  ; 
But  in  thy  time,  although  she  wore 
The  trappings  still  of  monkish  lore, 
She  dared  to  throw  the  cowl  aside, 
And  show  unveiled  her  brow  of  pride. 


184  POEMS. 

Grave  old  Student,  when  the  trace 
Of  years  is  left  upon  my  face, 
When  round  my  furrowed  temples  wave 
The  snowy  blossoms  of  the  grave, 
Fain  would  I  hope  my  changeful  brow 
May  then  be  calm  as  thine  is  now. 
But  vain  such  hope ;  life's  wintry  years 
Seal  not  the  source  of  woman's  tears. 


STANZAS    TO  A    FRIEND    AFTER   A   LONG 
SEPARATION. 

'HEY  tell  me  thou  art   cold   and   changed,  they 

say  thou  hast  forgot 
The  friendship  that  once  bound  our  hearts,  ere 

sorrow  crossed  thy  lot ; 

But  when  on  thy  familiar  face  I  fix  my  saddened  gaze, 
And   listen    to   thy  well-known  voice,  the   echo   of  past 

days, 
The  pleasant  memories  of  youth  come  thronging   round 

my  heart,  — 

I  think  but  of  the  friend  thou  wert,  and  heed  not  what 
thou  art. 

And  yet  I  cannot  deem  thou  art  from   friendship  quite 

estranged, 
Not  always  are  the  feelings  chilled  when  most  the  mien 

is  changed ; 


THE  REFUSAL.  185 

There  is  a  sadness  in  thine  eye,  a  shadow  on  thy  brow, 
Which  tells  me  that  the  hand  of  care  has  done  its  work 

ere  now  : 
And  who  by  common  laws  would  judge   the    heart  that 

deeply^  grieves  ? 
What   eye    may   penetrate    the   veil    that    silent   sorrow 

weaves  ? 

O  !  when  in  after  life  the  heart  from   hollow  friendship 

turns, 

How  often  o'er  its  early  dreams  in  bitterness  it  yearns  ! 
How  oft  it  pines  with  vain  regret  o'er  memories  of  the 

past, 
When  all  the  gloom  that  dimmed  its  sky  by  April  clouds 

were  cast ; 
And   then,  when  all  too  late,  it  learns  how  much  more 

holy  truth 
Than  e'er  again  can  bless  our  lot,  was  in   the    love   of 

youth. 


THE  REFUSAL. 

;O,  dearest  one,  not  mine  the  hand 

To  bind  thy  free  and  tameless  heart 
In  fetters  which  thou  canst  not  break 
When  changeful  fancy  bids  us  part. 
Be  it  my  task  alone  to  bear 

The  daily  strengthening  chain, 
And  thou  mayst  wreathe  its  links  with  flowers, 
But  never  share  its  pain. 


1 86  POEMS. 

The  slender  fibre  which  unites 

The  young  peach  blossom  to  the  bough, 
Is  not  more  fragile  than  the  tie 

That  binds  our  hearts  together  now  ; 
Yet  better  to  be  thus,  for  when 

The  tempest  comes,  —  as  come  it  will,  — 
It  can  but  rend  the  fading  flower, 

The  branch  may  flourish  still. 


HAPPINESS. 

JOT  in  wealth's  gorgeous  hall, 
Decked  out  in  all  art's  costliest  arraying, 
Where,  'mid  tall  columns,  silvery  fountains  play 
ing 

Upon  the  ear  like  music's  echoes  fall  ; 
The  home  of  pomp,  the  daily  haunt  of  pride  — 
Not  there  —  not  there,  doth  Happiness  abide. 

Not  in  the  humble  cot 

Whose  walls  no  ray  of  fortune's  sunshine  blesses, 
Where  the  dull  weight  of  penury  oppresses 

The  hearts  that  wither  'neath  their  heavy  lot ; 
The  home  of  want,  too  oft  the  den  of  guilt  — 
Not  there  has  Happiness  her  mansion  built. 

Not  in  the  quiet  nook 

Where  the  pale  student  his  lone  watch  is  keeping, 
While  his  high  thoughts,  the  bounds  of  time  o'erleaping, 

Forgetting  earth,  on  things  immortal  look  ; 


THE  FORSAKEN.  187 

The  home  of  genius,  wisdom's  calm  retreat  — 
Not  even  there  has  Happiness  her  seat. 

O  !  seek  her  not  on  earth, 

Where  all  the  brightest  hopes  our  hearts  can  cherish, 
Like  flowers  in  desert  isles,  are  doomed  to  perish, 

Unknown  beyond  the  spot  that  gave  them  birth : 
O  !  ne'er  on  earth  can  aught  so  fair  find  rest ; 
Not  here  shall  Happiness  reward  thy  quest. 


THE   FORSAKEN. 

"  The  cure  is  bitterer  still." 

FOR  one  hour,  one  blissful  hour 
||     Like  those  my  young  heart  knew, 
When  all  my  dreams  of  future  joy 
From  love  their  coloring  drew ; 
I  deemed  affection  then  might  be 
The  very  life  of  life  to  me  : 
Alas  !  'twas  source  of  every  ill, 
But  yet,  "The  cure  is  bitterer   still." 

I  loved  !  O,  fearful  is  the  strength 

Of  woman's  love,  combined 
With  all  the  spirit's  high-wrought  powers, 

The  energies  of  mind  : 
Such  deep  devotedness  as  feels 
The  Indian  when  he  humbly  kneels 
Before  his  idol's  car  to  meet 
A  death  of  rapture  at  his  feet  — 


1 88  POEMS. 

Such  love  was  mine,  though  fraught  with  ill  ; 
"  The  cure  —  the  cure  is  bitterer  still." 

O  grief  beyond  all  other  griefs  ! 

To  feel  the  slow  decay 
Of  love  and  hope  within  the  heart, 

Ere  youth  be  past   away : 
To  know  that  life  must  henceforth  be 
A  voyage  o'er  a  tideless  sea, 
No  ebb  or  flow  of  hopes  and  fears 
To  vary  the  dull  waste  of  years  ; 
O  !  love  may  be  life's   chiefest  ill, 
But  ah!  ''The  cure  is  bitterer  still." 


SONNET. 

CHASE  that  dusky  shadow  from  thy  brow, 
My  own  beloved  one  !    though  a   threatening 

cloud 

May  seem  the  future  scenes  of  life  to  shroud, 
Though,  like  a  way-benighted  traveller,  now 
Thou  wanderest  on  with  painful  steps  and  slow, 
Yet  thou  dost  bear  a  soul  too  high  and  proud 
To  be  by  earthly  suffering  crushed  and   bowed. 
Bear  up  awhile  !     E'en  as  from   every  blow 
That  felled  the  fabled  Titan  to  the  earth, 

He  rose  with  strength  redoubled  to  the  strife, 


STANZAS..  189 

So  shall  thou  find  thy  very  griefs  give  birth 

To  strength  sufficient  for  the  ills  of  life  ; 
Thou'st  stood  unblenched  'mid  passion's  fearful  war, 
Then  let  not  sorrow  now  thy  soul's  bright  sunshine  mar. 


STANZAS. 

'TWAS  but  for  thy  sake  I  taught 

My  harp  a  louder  tone, 

And  checked  its  low-breathed  murmurs  fraught 
With  love  for  thee    alone ; 
Thou  badest  me  with  a  bolder  hand 

Awake  a  lofty  strain, 
And  when,  dear  love,  did  thy  command 
Fall  on  my  ear  in  vain  ? 

Yet  hard  the  task  ;  each  trembling  string 

Was  formed  but  to  express 
The  gentle  thoughts  from  love  that  spring, 

The  dreams  of  tenderness ; 
They  cannot  breathe  of  dark  remorse, 

Of  souls  untamed  and  wild, 
Of  passions  to  whose  fearful   force 

The  tempest's  wrath  is  mild. 

But  of  the  pure  and  stainless  soul 

That  keeps  its  onward  way, 
Though  storms  and  clouds  before  it  roll, 

And  lightnings  round  it  play, 


190  POEMS. 

The  soul  that  with  an  eagle's  wing 
Soars  up  to  truth's  bright  beam 

Of  such,  beloved  one,  I  may  sing 
For  thou  art  then  my  theme. 


NIGHT. 

queenly    Night    approaches,    her    dark 
robe 

Gemmed  thick  with  stars  ;  and,  while  her  gen 
tle  touch 

Opens  the  sun-sealed  fountains  of  the  dew, 
Her  fragrant  breath  is  passing  o'er  the  earth, 
Closing  the  flowers  in  slumber.     Beautiful, 
And  strong  as  beautiful  art  thou.     The  child 
Who  lifts  his  tiny  hands  in  joy  to  see 
The  crescent  on  thy  brow,  is  not  more  fair; 
And  the  stern  king  at  whose  dread  name  men  shrink, 
Is  scarce  more  powerful.     Thy  soft  whisper  lulls 
Whole  cities  to  forgetfulness,  and  sheds 
The  sweets  of  slumber  o'er  the  armed  host 
No  less  than  o'er  the  busy  insect  tribes 
That  hum  their  hour  away  ;   till  silence  reigns 
Unmoved,  save  by  the  melancholy  song 
Old  Ocean  wakes  within  his  hollow  caves. 

Night,  queenly  Night,  like  woman's   holy  love, 
Thy  blessed  influence  breathes  on  all  around, 


BYRON  IN  THE   CERTOSA    CEMETERY.         19 1 

And  fills  the  earth  with  gentleness  and  peace. 

O  !  who,  while  gazing  on  thy  placid  brow, 

Thou  first-born  of  eternity  !  can  feel 

The  weight  of  earthly  vanities  ?     'Tis  thine 

To    loose  the  fetters  which  the  world  has  twined 

Around  the  spirit's  eagle  wings,  and  give 

Free  flight  to  daring  thought,  till  the  proud  soul 

O'erleaps  the  narrow  bounds  of  time  and  sense 

To  pierce  the  glorious  mysteries  of  Heaven. 


BYRON  IN  THE  CERTOSA  CEMETERY. 

"  I  found  such  a  pretty  epitaph,  or  rather  two ;  one  was,  — '  Martini  Luigi,  itn- 
plora  pace.'  The  other  '  Lucrezia  Picini,  implora  eterna  quiete.'  That  was  all,  but 
it  appeared  to  me  that  these  two  or  three  words  comprise  and  compress  all  that  can 
be  said  on  the  subject.  They  contain  doubt,  hope,  and  humility.  Let  me  have  the 
'  Implora  pace,'  and  nothing  else,  for  my  epitaph." 

Letter  of  Byron  to  Mr.  Hoppner  in  1819. 

;M FLORA  PACE!"  'tis  the  cry 

Of  some  meek  child  of  want  and  care 
Whose  life  has  been  a  long,  long  sigh, 
A  weary  struggle  with  despair. 
"  Implora  Pace  !  "  'tis  the  prayer 

Low  breathed  from  out  a  contrite  heart, 
When,  turning  from  the  things  that  are, 
Through  death's  dark  shadows  to  depart. 

"  Implora  Pace  !  "  hark  !  the  groan 

Bursts  from  the  quivering  lip  of  one 


192  POEMS. 

Who  proudly  stands  on  earth  alone, 

'Mid  many  stars  the  only  sun. 
He  bends  above  the  lonely  tomb  ; 

Dark  thoughts  have  dimmed  his  flashing  eye, 
His  brow  wears  sorrow's  heaviest  gloom  ; 

Then  list  his  agonizing  cry  :  — 

"  '  Implora  Pace  ! '     I  have  quaffed 

From  pleasure's  wine-cup  mantling  high, 
But  never  in  the  maddening  draught 

Was  found  the  peace  for  which  I  sigh. 
In  love,  earth's  best  deceit,  I  sought 

The  rest  for  which  my  bosom  pined  ; 
With  bliss,  deep  bliss,  the  dream  was  fraught, 

Its  madness  still  remains  behind. 

'"Implora  Pace!'    I  have  lun 

With  speed  unslackened  glory's  race  ; 
In  the  world's  wondering  sight  have  won 

Its  bays  my  boyish  brow  to  grace  ; 
My  name  is  heard  from  every  tongue, 

My  words  on  every  heart  imprest, 
My  strains  in  every  clime  are  sung, 

Yet  fame  brings  not  my  spirit  rest. 

"  '  Implora  Pace  ! '    I  have  tried 

All  that  earth  knows  of  joy  or  pain, 
Its  bliss,  its  woe,  its  hopes,  its  pride, 
All,  all  alike,  are  worse  than  vain. 
Withered  and  old  in   heart  I  stand 
Upon  the  brink  of  death's  dark  wave, 


STANZAS  ON  READING  "CORINNA."  193 

And  hope,  aye  hope  no  better  land 
Awaits  the  soul  beyond  the  grave. 

"  '  Implora  Pace  ! '  all  I  seek 

Is  rest  —  the  soul's  eternal  rest. 
Thou  mouldering  clay  beneath  me,  speak ! 

Say,  will  death  satisfy  my  quest  ? 
Thou  canst  not  tell  —  I  dare  not  think  — 

Child-like  at  phantom   forms  I  quake ; 
Yet  fain  of  death's  dark  stream  would  drink, 

My  feverish  spirit's   thirst  to  slake." 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN"    AFTER    THE    SECOND    READING    OF    "  CORINNA." 

CHILDHOOD'S  glad  smile  was  on  my  lip,  life's 

sunshine  on  my  brow, 
When   first  I  looked   upon   the   page   that   lies 

before  me  now  ; 
Twas    mystery   all  —  I    had    not    learned    the    love    of 

woman's  heart, 

No  meaning  to  my  spirit   could   its   thrilling  words  im 
part. 

Years   fleeted   on ;    the   sunny    smile    had   faded    from 

my  face, 
Upon  my  brow  was  graved  the   sign  which   pain    alone 

can  trace  ; 
13 


194  POEMS. 

Youth  still  was  mine,  but  not  the  youth  of   childhood's 

laughing  day, 
Youth  still  was  mine,  but  early  hope  and  joy  had  passed 

away. 

O,  then  no  mystery  was  the   page   that   told    Corinna's 

woe, 
Too  deeply  had  my  spirit  learned  such   bitter  truth    to 

know  ; 
Mine  own  wild  heart !  did  I  not  read  thy  secret  sorrow 

there, 
Thy  lofty   dreams,    thy  fervent    love,  thy  bliss,  and    thy 

despair  ? 

Feelings  that  long  had  wrestled  on  within  my  inmost 
soul, 

Thoughts  that  had  ne'er  found  voice,  and  dreams  that 
spurned  at  truth's  control, 

Love  far  too  pure  and  deep  to  pour  on  aught  of  mor 
tal  mould, 

All  that  my  heart  so  long  had  hid,  Corinna's  passion 
told. 

O  !  none  but  woman's    tongue    such    tales    of  woman's 

heart  could  tell, 

Its  varied  perils  when  the  tides  of  passion  wildly  swell, 
Its  hopes,  its   fears,  its  visions  wild,  its  weakness,  and 

its  power  — 
The  reed  when  wooed  by  zephyr's  breath,  the  oak  when 

tempests  lower. 


TO  MY  SISTER.  195 


TO    MY    SISTER. 

"  Her  lot  is  on  you,  silent  tears  to  weep, 

And  patient  smiles  to  wear  in  suffering's  hour, 
And  sumless  riches  from  affection's  deep, 

To  pour  on  broken  reeds  —  a  wasted  shower, 
To  make  them  idols  and  to  find  them  clay, 
And  to  bewail  that  worship  —  therefore  pray  ! '' 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

,  mark  the    strain,  sweet   sister — watch    and 

Wean  thy  young,  stainless  heart  from  earthly 

things  ; 

O,  wait  not  thou,  till  life's  bright  morning  ray 
Only  o'er  blighted  hopes  its  radiance  flings, 
But  give  to  Heaven  thy  sinless  spirit  now, 
Ere  sorrow's  tracery  mar  that  placid  brow. 

Sinless  and  pure  thou  art,  yet  is  thy  soul 

Filled  with  a  maiden's  vague  and  pleasant  dreams  ; 

Sweet  fantasies  that  mock  at  thought's  control, 
Like  atoms  round  thee  float  in  fancy's  beam  ; 

But  trust  them  not,  young  dreamer,  bid  them  flee  ; 

They  have  deceived  all  others,  and  will  thee. 

Well  can  I  read  thy  dreams  ;  thy  gentle  heart 

(Already  woman's  in  its  wish  to  bless) 
Now  longs  for  one  to  whom  it  may  impart 

Its  untold  wealth  of  hidden  tenderness, 
And  pants  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  thrill 
That  wakes  when  fancy  stirs    affection's  rill. 


196  POEMS. 

Thou  dreamest,  too,  of  happiness  —  the  deep 
And  placid  joy  which  poets  paint  so  well : 

Alas  !  man's  passions,  even  when  they  sleep, 

Like  ocean's  waves  are  heaved  with  secret  swell, 

And  they  who  hear  the  frequent,  low-breathed  sigh, 

Know  'tis  the  wailing  of  the  storm  gone  by. 

Vain,  vain  are  all  such  visions  !  couldst  thou  know 
The  secrets  of  a  woman's  weary  lot  — 

O !  couldst  thou  read  upon  her  pride-veiled  brow, 
Her  wasted  tenderness,  her  love  forgot, 

In  humbleness  of  heart  thou  wouldst  kneel  down, 

And  pray  for  strength  to  wear  her  martyr  crown. 

But  thou  wilt  do  as  all  have  done  before, 

And  make  thy  heart  for  earthly  gods  a  shrine, 

There  all  affection's  priceless  treasures  pour, 

There  hope's  best  flowers  in  votive  garlands  twine ; 

And  thou  wilt  meet  the  recompense  all  must 

Who  place  in  earthly  love  their  faith  and  trust. 


TO   MY   FIRST-BORN. 

2Y  own,  my  child,  with    strange    delight    I    look 

upon  thy  face, 
And    press    thee    to    my  throbbing   heart    in  a 

mother's  fond  embrace  ; 

Each  breath  that  stirs  thy  little  frame  can  a  thrill  of  joy 
impart, 


TO  MY  FIRST-BORN.  197 

And  the  clasp    of   thy  tiny  hand    is    felt    like    a    pulse 

within  my  heart. 

Thy  little  life  lies  but  within  the  compass  of  a  dream, 
And  yet  how  changed  does  every  scene  of  my  existence 

seem ! 

For  over  e'en  its  dreariest  path  in  freshening  gushes  roll 
Feelings  that  long,  like  hidden  springs,  slept   darkly  in 

my  soul. 

My  own,  my  child,  what  magic  power  is  in  that  simple 

word  ! 
The  very  depths  of  tenderness   by  its   sweet  sound   are 

stirred, 
And,  like    Bethesda's    heaven-blessed    pool,  give    out    a 

healing  power ; 
For  how  can  sorrow  dwell  with  thee,  fair  creature  of  an 

hour  ? 
Though  from  my  breast  had  died  away  each   spark    of 

hope's  pure  flame, 
Though  pain  and  anguish  wrung  my  heart  as  erst  they 

racked  my  frame, 
Yet   would    each    pang   seem    light  compared  with   the 

deep  rapturous  glow 
That  thrilled  each  nerve  when  first   I   gazed   upon   thy 

baby  brow. 

My  own,  my  child,  fain  would  I  draw  the  shadowy  veil 

that  shrouds 

The  future  from  my  view,  with  all  its  sunshine  and  its 
clouds, 

To  learn  what  storms  must  gather  yet  around  thy  sin 
less  head, 


198  POEMS. 

And  gaze  upon  the  varied  path  which  thou  through  life 

must  tread. 
It  may  not  be !    no   human    skill    these    mysteries   may 

divine, 
The    God  who    led    my  erring  steps    will    surely  watch 

o'er  thine ; 
Enough  if   to  thy  mother's  hand  the  blessed  power   be 

given, 
To  shield  thy  heart   from    passion's    strife    and    fix    its 

hope  on  Heaven. 


STANZAS. 

:  Je  serai  enchante,  si  ma  chfere  amie  me  presente  de  nouveaux  vers." 

|F  it  be  true,  as  some  have  said, 

That  they  who  court  the  muses'  smile 
Must  ne'er  allow  the  joys  of  earth 
Their  feelings  to  beguile  ; 
If  it  be  true  that  love  ne'er  blooms 

For  those  who  to  such  gifts  aspire, 
That  they  must  joy  but  in  the  song, 

Must  live  but  for  the  lyre,  — 
Then  surely,  dear  one,  I  may  not 
E'er  hope  to  share  a  poet's  lot. 

If  it  be  true,  as  some  have  said, 

That  they  who  rove  in  fancy's  bowers, 

Must  never  turn  their  steps  aside 
To  pluck  earth's  fragile  flowers  ; 


STANZAS.  199 

If  it  be  true  that  they  must  yield 

The  treasures  of  affection's  mine, 
And  all  the  spirit's  high-wrought  powers 

To  deck  the  muses'  shrine,  — 
Then  surely  ne'er  for  me  can  glow 
The  wreath  that  binds  the  poet's  brow. 

If  it  be  true,  as  some  have  said, 

That  love  is  all  a  woman's  power, 
That  tenderness  and  truth  alone 

Are  woman's  richest  dower ; 
If  it  be  true  that  though  she  ne'er 

May  win  the  meed  of  deathless  fame, 
She  yet  may  teach  some  gentle  heart 

To  treasure  up  her  name, — 
Then  tell  me,  dear  one,  may  I  not 
Contented  share  a  woman's  lot? 

If  it  be  true,  as  some  have  said, 

That  woman's  heart  alone  can  teach 
The  way  to  that  pure  happiness 

Which  genius  scarce  may  reach,  — 
If  this  be  true,  O  !  ask  me  not 

To  seek  a  poet's  lofty  name  ; 
I  would  not  give  my  cherished  love 

To  win  undying  fame, 
And  dearer  far  one  smile  from  thee 
Than  hopes  of  immortality. 


200  POEMS. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SISTER. 

SEEP    for  the   dead  !    'tis  meet  that  tears  should 

consecrate  the  spot 
Where  sleep  the  loves  of  better  years,  the  hopes 

that  cheered  our  lot ; 
When  the  once    peopled    heart   is  left  all  desolate   and 

lone, 

'Tis  meet  that  tears  should  gem  the   trace  of  each  de 
parted  one ; 
Yet  not  in   hopeless   grief  we    mourn,  —  we   know  that 

they  are  blest, 

"  Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest." 

Weep  for  the  dead!  a  vacant  place  is  left  beside  our 
hearth, 

We  miss  a  low  and  gentle  voice  with  its  tones  of  quiet 
mirth ; 

The  meek  and  placid  face  that  seemed  a  moonlight  ray 
to  shed, 

Now,  veiled  forever  from  our  view,  rests  with  the  dream 
less  dead ; 

Yet  not  in  hopeless  grief  we  mourn — -that  spotless 
soul  is  blest, 

"  Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest." 


STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A   SISTER.       201 

Weep  for  the  dead !  as  summer  showers  refresh  the 
thirsting  earth, 

So  on  the  scathed  heart  fall  the  tears  that  mourn  de 
parted  worth  ; 

And  virtues,  all  unseen  before,  'neath  their  pure  influ 
ence  rise, 

As  summer's  fairest  flowers  are  nursed  by  April's  weep 
ing  skies. 

Surely  the  dead  may  claim  our  tears,  e'en  though  we 
know  them  blest, 

"  Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest." 

Weep  for  the  dead  !    the    bounteous    God  who  gave  us 

hearts  to  feel, 
Meant    not    that  we    their    hidden  founts  of  tenderness 

should  seal  ; 
How   could  we    learn    our  mighty  debt  of  gratitude  to 

pay 
For    blessings    left,  if   nought   we   recked    of  blessings 

snatched  away  ? 
Yes!    we  may  weep    the    sainted    dead,  e'en  though  we 

know  them  blest, 
"  Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 

are  at  rest." 


POEMS. 


THE  WIFE'S  SONG. 

HEY    told    me   that,    when    time    had  sped    on 

rapid  wing  away, 
Such  fervent  tenderness  as  mine  must  sink  by 

slow  decay  ; 

That,  springing  thus  'mid  earth-born    cares,  love's    pre 
cious  buds  would  fade  ; 
Such   passion    flowers    were    all    too    frail    to    bear   the 

world's  cold   shade. 

It  may  be  so  with    some ;    my  love    is  like    that  north 
ern  flower1 
Which    blooms    in    beauty  though   unnursed  by  sun,  or 

earth,  or  shower ; 

The  breath  of  heaven  is  all  it  needs  to  call  it  into  life, 
As  heedless  of  the  summer  sky  as  of  the  tempest's  strife. 

They  told    me    that  when  days  had    passed,  and  found 

my  task  the  same, 

On  the  Penates'  lowly  shrine  to  trim  the  sacred  flame, 
And  to  that  humble  service  bend  the  spirit  that  of  yore 
Within  the  muses'  glorious  fane  was  wont  its  gifts  to 

pour  — 
They  told  me  I  would    spurn  the  toil,  and    grieve  that 

I  had  turned 
From  the  high  dreams  of  fame  with  which  my  youthful 

fancy  burned  ; 
They  little    know    that  pleasant  toil  has  given  my  soul 

new  power 
To  realize  the  dreams  it  formed  in  youth's  enchanted  hour. 

1  The  Air  Plant. 


ADIEU  OF   THE   EMPRESS  AMELIA.  203 

They  told    me  that  when    time    had    made  my  bosom's 

idol  seem 

Familiar  to  my  daily  sight  as  to  my  nightly  dream, 
That  charm  by  charm  would  be  dispelled,  and  my  sick 

heart  would  pine 
For  those   high    attributes  which  once  it  fondly  fancied 

thine  ; 

It  may  be  so  with  some,  but  I  could  tell  another  tale ; 
I  would  but   point  to  thee,  and  show  how  fancy's  tints 

may  fail, 
And  teach  them  that  full  many  a  year  of  wedded  love 

may  be 
Still  marked  by  all  the  fervent  faith  of  youth's  idolatry. 


ADIEU  OF  THE  EMPRESS  AMELIA  OF  BRAZIL 
TO  THE  INFANT  EMPEROR. 

The  following  stanzas  are  little  more  than  a  poetical  version  of  the  farewell  which 
the  Empress  is  said  to  have  uttered  by  the  couch  of  her  adopted  son,  the  infant  Em 
peror,  who  was  lying  asleep  when  the  ex-Imperial  family  embarked  to  place  them 
selves  under  the  protection  of  an  English  ship  of  war. 

AREWELL,  farewell,  child  of  my  love — joy  of 

mine  eyes,  farewell  ! 
Thou   canst   not  know  the  bitter  pangs  that  in 

my  bosom  swell  ; 
Thou   sleepest,  while  above  thy  couch  my  deep  lament 

I  pour, 

Thou    sleepest  —  ah  !    my  lip    shall   greet  thy  wakening 
smile  no  more  ! 


204  POEMS. 

Calmly  thou    liest,  my    beautiful  —  how   strangely    doth 

Heaven  show 
Its  power  by  such  weak  instruments   to  work  our  weal 

or  woe  ; 

Thou  liest  in  infant  helplessness,  yet  on  that  baby  brow 
Ere    long   the    splendors   of   a  crown,  earth's    deadliest 

gift,  must  glow. 

A  throne  is  thine,  and  yet  how  sweet  thy  cradled  rest, 
my  boy ! 

A  crown  is  thine — yet  in  thy  hand  is  grasped  a  sim 
ple  toy  ; 

The  robe  of  royalty  is  but  an  infant's  mantle  now, 

The  ruler  of  a  mighty  realm  —  a  helpless  babe  art  thou  ! 

0  !  wert  thou   mine   by  nature's   right  as  well  as  love's 

strong  claim, 

Couldst  thou  but  lisp,  in  holy  truth,  a  mother's  sacred 
name, 

No  power  on  earth  should  turn  my  feet,  beloved  one, 
from  thy  side, 

Still  would  I  live  thy  menial  slave  if  all  else  were  de 
nied. 

Alas !  alas  !  Heaven  never  gave  so  rich  a  boon  to  me  ; 
My  duty  to  my  lord  is  vowed  —  how  can  he  turn  from 
thee? 

1  go,  his  lone  and  weary  life  of  exiled  grief  to  share, 
To   find    a  home    in  foreign    climes  —  a   home  !  —  and 

thou  not  there  ! 


ADIEU  OF  THE  EMPRESS  AMELIA.  205 

Brazilian  mothers !  ye  who  bend  o'er  your  fair  boys 
with  love, 

As  o'er  her  tender  nursling  broods  the  patient  turtle 
dove, 

O  !  bless  the  Power  that  gave  you  sons  of  humbler, 
happier  birth, 

And  take  the  crowned  orphan  boy  home  to  your  hearts 
and  hearth. 

Strew  o'er  his  couch  the  fadeless  leaves  of  Freedom's 
stately  tree, 

And,  when  the  crown  upon  his  brow  a  weary  weight 
shall  be, 

Then  twine  the  sweet  vanilla  bud,  the  rose,  the  jas 
mine  fair,  — 

A  diadem  of  nature's  gems  best  suits  that  golden  hair. 

Far  from  his  cradled   slumbers    chase  the    dark-winged 

bird  of  prey, 
The  viper,  and,  more  poisonous  still,  the  courtier  chase 

away  ; 
And  should  foul   treason   rear  its  crest,  then   rouse  all 

to  the  field, 
Valor's  strong  arm  his  sure  defense,  woman's  soft  breast 

his  shield. 

Teach  his  young  lips  the  voice  of  love,  of  mercy,  and 

of  truth, 
Teach  him  on  Freedom's  holy  shrine  to  consecrate  his 

youth  ; 


206  FOE  MS. 

Teach  him  to  love  his  own  fair  land,  and  let  his  boy 
ish  glee 

Be  sometimes  saddened  by  a  thought,  a  yearning  thought 
of  me. 

Pure,  beautiful    as  Eve's    first-born,  I  give  him   to  your 

care  ; 
The    germ  of   future    bliss    or   woe,  a  nation's    hope  is 

there. 
He  slumbers  still  ;    O  !  wake  him  not !    his  look  would 

rend  my  heart ; 
His  lips  are  bright  with  sunny  smiles  —  he  smiles,  and 

I  depart ! 

Farewell,  young  victim  !  thou  wert  born  too  noble  to  be 
blest ; 

A  peasant  boy  might  still  repose  upon  his  mother's 
breast, 

But  thou,  poor  orphaned  Emperor  !  —  O  words  are  vain 
to  tell 

Thy  mother's  mortal  agony  !  —  one  kiss  —  beloved,  fare 
well  ! 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  SUMMER  FRIENDS  WHOM 
I  MET  AT  WEST  POINT. 

S§>E  shall  meet  no  more  on  the  green  hill-side, 

We  shall  gaze  no  more  on  the  wild  cascade, 
Nor  e'er  shall  our  feet  range  far  and  wide 
The  rugged  cliff  and  the  sunny  glade  ; 


FAREWELL    TO  FRIENDS.  207 

We  shall    look  not  again  on  the  glorious  sun, 
As  he  wends  his  way  to  the  glowing  west, 

And  pauses  to  smile,  ere  his  task  is  done, 
On  a  scene  so  fair,  as  he  sinks  to  rest. 

We  shall  roam  not  again  by  the  mountain  stream, 

As  it  dashes  down  on  its  rocky  way, 
Through  the  deep,  dark  glen  where  the  sun's  glad  beam 

Scarce  touches  its  wave  with  a  noontide  ray ; 
We  shall  meet  no  more  on  the  mountain  height 

Where  the  mouldering  fort  in  its  ruin  stands, 
While  our  hearts  are  thrilling  with  proud  delight 

As  we  think  on  the  deeds  of  our  patriot  bands. 

We  shall  wander  no  more  amid  nature's  wealth, 

The  gold-'broidered  field  and  the  silver  rill ; 
We  shall  meet  not  again  as  we  woo  sweet  health 

In  the  shady  dell,  on  the  breezy  hill  ; 
Like  the  passing  shade  on  the  mountain's  brow, 

Which  fleets  with  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth, 
Are  the  joys  that  in  this  world  around  us  glow, 

And  the  transient  friendships  of  changing  earth. 


208  POEMS. 


LINES  ON  HEARING  MY  CHILDREN  SING. 

HOSE  clear,  ringing  voices  !  how  simple  the  spell 
That  sends  my  sad  thoughts,  prisoned,  back  to 

their  cell ! 

Dark  phantoms  of  ill  cease  around  me  to  throng 
While  I  list  to  the  tones  of  my  children's  sweet  song. 

Not  an  impulse  to-day  in  my  chilled  heart  had  stirred, 
Yet  how  wildly  it  bounds  to  each  innocent  word  ! 
The  stream  of  affection  seemed  frozen  for  aye, 
But  already  the  ice  chains  are  melting  away. 

Those  clear,  ringing  voices  !  my  lone  bosom  feels 
New  hopes  spring  to  life  as  the  melody  steals 
On  the  calm  evening  breeze,  and  I  hail  it  a  token 
Of  joys  yet  to  come,  of  sweet  ties  all  unbroken. 

Alas !  for  the  heart  with  its  fond,  foolish  trust, 
And  its  hopes  that  are  born  but  to  crumble  to  dust ! 
Full  many  a  joy  that  my  young  heart  once  cherished, 
Like  violets  in  winter,  have  budded  and  perished. 

Those  clear,  ringing  voices  !  I  could  not  live  on 
'Mid  the  discords  of  earth  if  those  voices  were  gone, 
Yet  I  tremble  when  listening  to  echoes  so  glad, 
For  life's  music  must  ever  be  dirge-like  and  sad. 


A   LAMENT.  209 


A  LAMENT. 

|'ER  the  wide  waters  of  the  swelling  sea, 

Whose  mystic  music  once  I  loved  to  hear, 
But  whose  low  moaning  now  must  ever  be 
The  voice  of  death  and  sorrow  to  mine  ear, 
Echoed  by  many  a  wild  and  restless  wave, 
I  pour  my  wail  above  a  brother's  grave. 

Not  on  the  lap  of  gentle  mother  earth, 

Whose  worn  and  wearied  children  come  to  lay 

Their  aching  heads  on  her  who  gave  them  birth, 
Glad  to  forget  life's  long  and  toilsome  day  — 

Not  on  her  quiet  bosom  didst  thou  close 

Thine  eyes,  my  brother,  in  their  last  repose. 

Thine  was  a  death  of  agony  —  a  brief 

And  mortal  struggle  with  the  foaming  deep ; 

Yet,  while  we  mourn  with  unavailing  grief, 

Thou,  pillowed  on  the  shifting  surge,  dost  sleep 

As  tranquilly  as  if  spring's  earliest  bloom 

Was  showered  in  roses  on  thy  early  tomb. 

I  weep  for  thee  ;  but  wherefore  ?     Thou  didst  drink 
One  draught  of  bitterness,  then  put  aside 

The  cup  forever  ;  better  thus  to  sink 

Beneath  the  raging  ocean's  whelming  tide, 

Than  live  till  cares  had  gnawed  thy  heart  away, 

And  left  thee  nought  to  hope  for  but  decay. 
14 


ro  POEMS. 

What  is  our  life  ?     I  know  not  —  but  I  feel 
That  'tis  a  scene  of  suffering  at  the  best ; 

Nor  know  I  what  is  death  —  yet  when  I  kneel 
In  prayer  to  Heaven,  I  hope  that  death  is  rest ; 

O  !  then  how  selfish  are  the  tears  we  shed 

Upon  the  grave  of  the  untimely  dead ! 

And  yet  thou  wert  so  full  of  hope,  so  young, 
Thy  visions  of  the  future  were  so  bright, 

Joy's  mirthful  accents  ever  on  thy  tongue, 

And  pleasure   lending  to  thine  eye  its  light  — 

O  !  why  wert  thou  thus  snatched  away,  ere  truth 

Had  blent  its  bitter  with  the  sweet  of  youth  ? 

It  may  have  been  in  mercy  —  it  may  be 
That  thou  wert  taken  from  the  ill  to  come ; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  moaning  sea 

I  fain  would  deem  thy  welcome  to  a  home  ; 

And  though  my  heart  may  inly  bleed,  no  more 

My  wild  repinings  would  I  idly  pour. 

Thou  art  at  rest!  the  peace  for  which  all  pine 
Through  many  an  hour  of  weariness  and  woe, 

Too  soon,  perhaps,  for  thy  young  hopes,  is  thine : 
And,  though  my  selfish  tears  for  thee  may  flow, 

The  Power  that  stays  the  mighty  deep  can  still 

The  restless  murmurs  of  my  wayward  will. 


STANZAS   TO  A    FRIEND. 
STANZAS 

ADDRESSED    TO    A    FRIEND    ON    HER    MARRIAGE. 

O  voice  but  that  of  gladness 

Should  meet  thine  ear  to-day, 
Yet  only  in  deep  sadness 
Can  I  love's  tribute  pay  ; 
Unbidden  tears  are  springing, 

Their  source  thy  heart  can  tell  : 
Of  joy  I  should  be  singing, 
I  can  but  sigh  —  Farewell ! 

When  from  life's  fairy  garland 

Has  fallen  a  precious  gem, 
Can  I  smile  to  see  it  glisten 

In  another's  diadem  ? 
Could  I  hear  thy  deep  vow  spoken 

Without  a  thought  of  pain, 
When  I  felt  the  best  link  broken 

In  friendship's  golden  chain  ? 

Yet  mine  is  selfish  sorrow, 

Which  love  should  hush  to  rest, 
And  my  heart  should  solace  borrow 

From  the  thought  that  thou  art  blest ; 
Where  hope  once  claimed  dominion, 

Joy  holds  his  revel  bright, 
And  thy  spirit's   drooping  pinion 

Waxes  strong  in  love's  pure  light. 


POEMS. 

I  know  that  thou  art  happy  ! 

O  may  affection's  glass 
With  its  diamond  sparkles  measure 

Life's  changes   as  they  pass. 
Could  friendship's  gentle  magic 

Rule  thy  horoscope  of  doom, 
Not  a  moment  e'er  should  meet  thee 

In  sadness  or  in  gloom. 

Farewell,  farewell,  beloved  one, 

Though  destined  far  to  roam, 
When  thoughts  come  crowding  on  thee 

Of  thy  distant  native  home  — 
The  home  from  whence  has  vanished 

One  dear  familiar  face, 
And  the  hearth  whence  joy  was  banished 

When  thou  left  a  vacant  place  — 

When  memory's  mournful  music 

Awakes  thy  pleasant  tears, 
O  !  let  one  chord  still  vibrate 

To  the  friend  of  early  years. 
I've  loved  thee  in  thy  sorrow, 

I'll  love  thee  still  in   joy  : 
Time  could  not  change  our  friendship,  — 

Shall  absence  it  destroy  ? 


STANZAS   TO  MY  FATHER.  213 


TO  MY  PARENTS. 

he  who,  travelling  through  a  lengthened  day, 
Reaches  at  summer  eve  some  green  hill-side, 
1    And,  looking  back,  sees  veiled  in  twilight  gray 
The  dreary  path  through  which  he  lately  hied, 
While  o'er  his  onward  path  the  setting  sun 

Sheds  its  sweet  light  on  every  wilding  flower, 
Till  he  forgets  the  weary  labors  done 

And  his  heart  tastes  the  quiet  of  the  hour,  — 
Father  and  mother  !  be  it  thus  with  you  ! 

While  memory's  pleasant  twilight  shades  the  past, 
May  hope  illume  the  path  you  still  pursue, 

And  each  new  scene  seem  brighter  than  the  last ; 
Thus  wending  on  t'wards  sunset  ye  may  find 
Life's  lengthening  shadows  ever  cast  behind. 


STANZAS 

ADDRESSED    TO    MY    FATHER    ON    NEW    YEAR'S    DAY. 

'EAR  not,  dear  father,  looks  of  gloom  upon  this 

festal  day, 
Nor  yield    thy  soul    to  pensive    thoughts  when 

all  around  are  gay  ; 
Why  shouldst  thou  pause  and  sadly  gaze  through  time's 

dim  vista  back, 

When  so  much   sunshine   gathers    yet  above    thine    on 
ward  track  ? 


214  FORMS. 

What  though  the  sun  of  life  declines  from  its  meridian 
height, 

Since  thus  it  sheds  upon  thy  path  a  softer,  mellower 
light  ? 

Across  its  morning  beam  full  oft  the  tempest  cloud  was 
driven, 

But  all  undimmed  is  now  the  ray  that  lights  thy  even 
ing  heaven. 

O,  look  not  on  these  festive  hours  as  monitors  unkind, 
That    mark   how   much  of  life's    short    road    thy   steps 

have  left  behind  ; 
Rather,    like   green  and   shady   spots    along   our   weary 

way, 
They  offer   rest   to    those  who  bear   the  burden  of  the 

day. 


PEACE. 

"The  Lord  will  bless  his  people  with  peace." 

SEEK  her  not  in  marble  halls  of  pride, 
|j  Where  gushing  fountains  fling  their  silver  tide, 
Their  wealth  of  freshness  toward  the  summer 

sky; 

The  echoes  of  a  palace  are  too  loud,  — 
They  but  give  back  the  footsteps  of  the  crowd, 

Who  throng  about  some  idol  throned  on  high, 
Whose  ermined  robe  and  pomp  of  rich  array, 
But  serve  to  hide  the  false  one's  feet  of  clay. 


PEACE.  215 

Nor  seek  her  form  in  poverty's  low  vale, 

Where,  touched  by  want,  the  bright  cheek  waxes  pale, 

And  the  heart  faints  with  sordid  cares  opprest ; 
Where  pining  discontent  has  left  its  trace 
Deep  and  abiding  in  each  haggard  face. 

Not  there,  not  there  Peace   builds  her  halcyon  nest : 
Wild  revel  scares  her  from  wealth's  towering  dome, 
And  misery  frights  her  from  a  lowly  home. 

Nor  dwells  she  in  the  cloister,  where  the  sage 
Ponders  the  mystery  of  some  time-stained  page, 

Delving  with  feeble  hand  the  classic  mine  ; 
O,  who  can  tell  the  restless  hope  of  fame, 
The  bitter  yearnings  for  a  deathless  name, 

That  round  the  student's  heart  like  serpents  twine  ! 
Ambition's  fever  burns  within  his  breast  ; 
Can  Peace,  sweet  Peace,  abide  with  such  a  guest  ? 

Search  not  within  the  city's  crowded  mart, 
Where  the  low,  whispered  music  of  the  heart 

Is  all  unheard  amid  the  clang  of  gold  ; 
O !  never  yet  did  Peace  her  chaplet  twine 
To  lay  upon  base  mammon's  sordid  shrine, 

Where    earth's   most   precious   things  are  bought  and 

sold  ; 

Thrown  on  that  pile,  the  "  pearl  of  price  "  would  be 
Despised,  because  unfit  for  merchantry. 

Go  !  hie  thee  to  God's  altar  ;  kneeling  there, 
List  to  the  mingled  voice  of  fervent  prayer 

That  swells  around  thee  in  the  sacred  fane, 
Or  catch  the  solemn  organ's  pealing  note 


POEMS. 


When  grateful  praises  on  the  still  air  float, 

And  the  freed  soul  forgets  earth's  heavy  chain; 
And  learn  that  Peace,  sweet  Peace,  is  always  found 
In  her  eternal  home  on  holy  ground. 


THE  FAREWELL. 

PE   met    as    strangers,  lady,  not  as  strangers   do 

we  part ; 
Long  will  thy  memory  remain  enshrined  within 

my  heart  ; 

Else  would  not  these  unbidden  tears  beneath  mine  eye 
lids  swell, 

As    standing    on    the    pebbly  shore,  I    breathe    my  sad 
farewell. 

We  met  as  strangers,  but  that  heart  must  be  as  winter 

cold, 
Which  asks  revolving  years  before  love's   blossoms  can 

unfold  ; 
A  look,  a  word,  a  simple    tone,  oft   wakes    the    spirit's 

strings, 
And    calls    forth    all    the    melody   from    sympathy    that 

springs. 

The  chambers  of  mine  imagery  an  added  treasure  show  ; 
Thy  graceful  form  is  pictured  there,  thy  calm  and  cloud 
less  brow  : 


THE    THOUGHTLESS   WORD,  217 

Traced  by  affection's  skillful  hand,  illumed  by  memory's 

light, 
Fadeless    those    tints    will    still    be    found   when    years 

have  sped  their  flight. 

O  !  dark  indeed  would  be  this  world,  did  we  not  some 
times  find 

That  best  of  all  earth's  fairy  gifts,  a  gentle  kindred 
mind ; 

And  though  we  only  meet  to  part,  yet  pleasant  thoughts 
remain 

To  cheer  our  onward  path  when  time  has  strewed  that 
path  with  pain. 

Farewell,  sweet  friend ;  I  speak  the  word  with  vain  but 

fond  regret ; 
It   may  be    long  ere  we  shall    meet    again  as  we    have 

met  ; 

But  at  the  quiet  evening  hour,  O  !  let  my  memory  seem 
The   half  traced   image   of  a  past   and  not  unpleasing 

dream. 


THE  THOUGHTLESS  WORD. 

"  Why  should  you  weep  at  a  thoughtless  word  ?  " 

HEN  like  a  fairy  scene  in  youth 

The  untried  world  is  spread  before     us, 
When  fancy  wears  the  garb  of  truth, 
And  sunny  skies  are  smiling  o'er  us, 


2l8  POEMS. 

When  never  yet  one  thought  of  woe 
The  heart's  deep  tenderness  has  stirred, 

How  little  then  our  spirits  know 
The  evils  of  a  thoughtless  word. 

When  one  by  one  our  joys  depart, 

When  hope  no  more  each  bright  hour  measures, 
When  like  a  Niobe  the  heart 

Sits  lonely  'mid  its  perished  treasures, 
When  far  from  human  aid  we  turn, 

The  voice  of  comfort  rarely  heard, 
O  then  how  bitterly  we  learn 

The  anguish  of  a  thoughtless  word. 


STANZAS 

ON    BEING     ASKED    TO    WRITE    SOME    VERSES,    AT    A    BRIDAL 
PARTY. 

NEVER  'mid  the  lighted  halls 

Where  glad  and  gay  ones  throng, 
Upon  my  wayward  spirit  falls 
The  gentle  power  of  song ; 
For  there  too  much  of  brightness  dwells, 

Too  much  of  reckless  mirth, 
And  fancy  will  not  weave  her  spells 
Amid  the  scenes  of  earth. 

The  voice  of  pleasure  in  my  heart 
Awakes  an  answering   tone, 


STANZAS    WRITTEN  IN  A   BIBLE.  219 

But,  when  those  joyous  sounds  depart, 

The  echo,  too,  is  gone  ; 
'Tis  only  o'er  my  lonely  hours 

Bright  dreams  of  beauty  come  ; 
Then  cloth  my  harp  awake  its  powers, 

To  cheer  my  quiet  home. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    ON     THE     BLANK     LEAF    OF    A    BIBLE    PRESENTED 
TO    A    BRIDE. 

T  mine  the  gift 

Of  glittering  gem  or  gold,  by  sordid  hands 
Dug  from  the  dirty  mine.     I  would  not  be 
Remembered  only  in  thy  festal  hours, 
Recalled  to  mind  by  some  bright  jewel's  flash, 
As,  decked  in  fashion's  costliest  array, 
Thou  threadest  the  mazes  of  the  giddy  dance  — 
I  would  be  linked  with  holier  memories. 
When,  in  reflection's  lonely  hour,  thy  heart 
Turns  from  the  turmoil  of  the  busy  world 
To  commune  with  itself,   then  let  my  gift 
Be  thy  companion.     Earthly  friends  may  fail, 
The  voice  of  sympathy  may  cease  to  pour 
Its  music  in  the  leaden  ear  of  sorrow, 
Yet  in  this  casket  wilt  thou  find  a  balm 
For  every  suffering.     As  thou  ponderest  o'er 
The  precious  truths  of  God's  most  holy  book, 


20  POEMS. 

O  may  they  be  upon  thy  soul  imprest, 

Teaching  thee  grateful  love  in  hours  of  joy, 

Giving  sweet  solace  in  thine  hour  of  sorrow, 

Offering  the  only  hope  that  can  outlast 

The  things  of  time  and  sense,  till  thou  hast  learned 

Above  all  other  earthly  good  to  prize 

My  humble  marriage  gift. 


VIOLETS. 

EARLY  I  love  those  simple  flowers, 

Half  hidden  in  their  dark  green  nest, 
Yet  decked  in  more  than  regal  pride, 
With  purple  robe  and  golden  vest. 

Dearly  I  love  them  ;  they  to  me 

With  cherished  memories  are  fraught, 

And  borne  upon  their  perfumed  breath 

Comes  many  a  sweet  and  pleasant  thought. 

Within  our  garden's  quiet  bounds 

Those  flowers  in  wild  profusion  grew, 

And  wandered  over  walk  and  bed, 
As  if  their  privilege  they  knew. 

Uprooted  was  each  noxious  weed, 
Well  trained  the  lily  and  the  rose, 

The  violets  alone  were  left 

To  wander  wheresoe'er  they  chose. 


VIOLETS.  221 

My  little  one  —  a  dark-eyed  child, 

Whose  cheek  the  rose  of  health  had  fled, 

Learned  well  to  love  the  purple  gems, 
And  cull  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

Her  little  hands  with  graceful  skill 

A  simple  garland  would  entwine, 
And  then  she  laughed  in  childish  glee, 

To  see  them  in  her  dark  locks  shine. 

At  morn  when  dew-drops  decked  the  grass, 
At  sunset's  bright  and  gorgeous  hours, 

Still  'mid  the  violets  was  she  seen, 

And  so  we  named  them  "  Anna's  flowers." 

Yet  O  !  how  oft  my  heart  was  wrung 
While  watching  o'er  her  fading  bloom  ; 

Alas  !  I  feared  another  spring 

Might  strew  those  flowers  upon  her  tomb. 

But,  Heaven  be  thanked  !  my  fears  were  vain  ; 

Again  the  rose  bedecks  her  cheek, 
Again  her  light  and  bounding  step 

The  garden's  vagrant  child  can  seek. 

And  when  beside  me  oft  she  sits 

With  apron  full  of  those  sweet  flowers, 
Singing  some  mirthful  melody, 
•  Or  picturing  scenes  of  future  hours  — 


POEMS. 


I  look  on  her,  and  inly  pray 

That  violet-like  her  life  may  prove ; 

The  fragrance  of  a  gentle  heart 
Her  undisputed  claim  to  love. 


TO  EMMA,  THREE  YEARS  OLD. 

•Y  youngest   and    my  loveliest,  my  darling   little 

one, 
E'en    to  a  stranger's    eye    thy    face    is    fair   to 

look  upon  ; 
With    thy  bright   locks,  thy  snowy  brow,  thine    eyes  so 

clearly   blue, 

And    thy  soft  velvet   lip   that    seems    a   rosebud    moist 
with  dew. 

But    to    a    mother's    heart   how  dear    is    every    childish 

grace  ; 
How  do    I    love    each    opening    germ   of   loveliness    to 

trace  ; 
To  hear  thee    lisp    each  new-found  word,  or   gaze  with 

sweet  surprise 
On  all    the  wonders    that    each    day  discovers    to  thine 

eyes. 

Yet  sweeter  to  a  mother's  hope,  my  little  one,  to  see 
That  look  of  gentle  gravity  steal  o'er  thy  face  of  glee ; 


THE  AUTUMN  WALK.  223 

It  tells  the  hidden  wealth    o'er  which    thy   young   glad 

thoughts  now  flow, 
As  quiet    streams    reveal    how  deep    their  current    runs 

below. 


THE   AUTUMN   WALK. 

WRITTEN     TO     ILLUSTRATE     A     PICTURE     IN    A   JUVENILE 
ANNUAL. 

£,  sister  Clara,  let  me  take 
Your  skipping  rope  away ; 
I'm  tired  of  marbles,  top,  and  ball, 
I  want  a  walk  to-day. 

Go,  get  your  hat,  the  autumn  sun 
Shines  out  so  warm  and  bright, 

That  you  might  almost  think  it  spring 
But  for  the  swallow's  flight. 

In  the  old  woods  I  found,  this  morn, 

A  drawing-room  complete  : 
A  Persian  carpet  made  of  leaves, 

A  mossy  sofa's  seat ; 

And  through  the  many-colored  boughs 

The  cheerful  sunlight  beams, 
More  beautiful,  by  far,  than  when 

Through  silken   blinds  it  gleams. 


224  POEMS. 

In  the  twined  branches  overhead 
The  squirrel  gambols  free, 

Dropping  his  empty  nutshells  down 
Beneath  the  chestnut  tree. 

And  now  and  then  the  rustling  leaves 
Are  scattered  far  and  wide, 

As  the  scared  rabbit  hurries  past, 
In  deeper  shades    to  hide. 

Among  the  leafless  brushwood,  too, 
You  sometimes  may  espy, 

Peering  so  cautiously  about 

The  wood-rat's  bright   black  eye. 

Come,  let  us  to  that  sunny  nook,  — 

I  love  to  wander  so, 
Among  the  quiet  autumn  woods ; 

Dear  sister,  shall  we  go  ? 


STANZAS. 

'HE  time  has  been  when  in  the  wildest  dreams 

Of  gay  romance  my  soul  could  find   delight, 
When,  till  the   stars    grew  pale    in    the    morn's 

glad  beams, 

I  reveled  oft  in  tales  of  wondrous  knight, 
And  rude  misshapen  dwarf,  and  peerless  ladye  bright. 


STANZAS.  225 

But  then  my  harp  was  voiceless  ;  my  young  hand 
No  music  from  its  tuneless  chords  awoke, 

The  soul  of  song  breathed  not  at  my  command, 
Thought  had  not  yet  its  early  trammels  broke, 

And  fancy  but  in  tones  of  lisping  childhood  spoke. 

Yet  ah  !  when  but  a  child  in  years,  my  heart 
Grew  woman's  in  its  tenderness  —  it  yearned 

Its  deep  and  restless  feelings  to  impart  ; 

And  then  my  harp  its  earliest  language  learned, 

Taught  by  affection's  power  to  breathe   the  words    that 
burned. 

Then  were  the  dreams  of  chivalry  forgot, 

No  more  could  knight  or  dame  my  feelings  move  ; 

My  heart  but  brooded  o'er  its  lonely  lot, 

And  my  harp  mocked  the  meanings  of  the  dove, 

For  but  one  tone  it  knew,  and  that  it  learned  of  love. 

Long  years  since  then  have  past ;  a  deeper  tone 
Now  murmurs  from  its  strings,  and  as  it  caught 

Its  inspiration  from  the  heart  alone, 

So  to  my  many  dreams  of  painful  thought 

My    harp    responsive    breathes    in   tones   with   sadness 
fraught. 

And  whether  now  I  pour  the  fancied  lay, 
Or  weave  the  old  world  tales  of  ages  past, 

Still  does  my  soul  its  fancies  dark  display, 
Still  o'er  my  song  the  spell  of  sorrow  cast, 

And  the  strain  dies  away  in  cadence  sad  at  last. 
15 


226  POEMS. 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN     FOR     A     CHARACTER     IN    A     TALE. 

HAVE  no  heart !  I  know  not  where 

The  wild  and  restless  thing  has  fled 
It  lives  not  in  a  mortal  breast, 
Nor  is  it  with  the  dead. 

I  have  no  heart !  love,  hope,  and  joy  ; 

Stir  not  the  current  of  my  life, 
Nor  know  I  aught  of  rapture's  thrill, 

Nor  passion's  fearful  strife. 

I  have  no  heart !    too  early  chilled 
It  slumbered  ne'er  to  wake  again, 

E'en  as  the  frozen  traveller  sleeps 
Through  all  life's  parting  pain. 

I  have  no  heart !  no  power  can  wake 
My  spirit  from  its  heavy  trance  ; 

Alike  to  me  are  love's  sweet  looks, 
Or  hatred's  withering  glance. 

I  have  no  heart !  nor  would  I  call 
The  restless  thing  to  life  once  more, 

E'en  if  a  wish  could  give  me  all 
I  sought  in  days  of  yore. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MISS  CLINCH.    227 


STANZAS 

ON    THE   DEATH   OF   MISS  CLINCH,    BETTER    KNOWN  AS 
"THYRZA." 

NEVER  looked  upon  thy  face, 

I  know  not  whether  it  was  fair, 
Or  whether  mind  alone  had  set 
_.-    glorious  impress  there  ; 
Thy  form  has  never  met  mine  eye 

Amid  the  passing  crowd, 
Yet  few  can  feel  as  I  do  now 
To  know  thee  in  thy  shroud. 

No  tone  from  thy  young  lip  that  came 

Has  ever  dwelt  upon  mine  ear, 
And  yet  how  oft  my  heart  has  thrilled 

Thy  spirit's  voice  to  hear  ; 
For  thou  wert  one  to  whom  was  given 

The  minstrel's  holy  power, 
The  power  to  commune  with  our  thoughts 

E'en  in  the  lonely  hour. 

I  knew  that  thou  wert  young,  for  ne'er 

The  worn  and  world-seared  soul  may  know 
Such  visitings  of  fancy's  light 

As  in  thy  sweet  strains  glow ; 
And  well  I  knew  the  priceless   gift 

Of  intellect  was  thine, 
E'en  though  mine  eyes  ne'er  gazed  upon 

Thy  spirit's  earthly  shrine. 


228  POEMS. 

Surely  it  is  no  marvel  then 

That  I  should  mourn  thy  early  doom, 
And  pour  a  passing  stranger's  wail 

Above  thy  lowly  tomb  ; 
Thou  wert  of  those  high-gifted  ones 

Who  to  the  world  belong, 
For  not  alone  the  social  hearth 

May  claim  the  child  of  song. 

Farewell,  young  minstrel,  thou  hast  shunned 

Perchance  a  darker,  sterner  fate, 
For  rarely  does  a  thornless  path 

The  steps  of  genius  wait ; 
The  finer  faculties  of  mind 

That  to  the  bard  are   given, 
Forbid  his  heart  to  find  its  rest 

Beneath  its  native  heaven. 

Farewell,  though  thou  wert  snatched  away 

Too  soon  to  win  undying  fame, 
Yet  many  a  gentle  thought  shall  wait, 

Young  minstrel,  on  thy  name  ; 
And  while  beloved  ones  weep  thy  doom 

With  many  a  fruitless  tear, 
A  stranger's  hand  would  fling  its  wreath 

Of  wild  flowers  on  thy  bier. 


SOA'G.  229 


SONG. 

'HEN  the  summer  sunlight  closes, 
And  each  weary  flower  reposes, 
When  the  evening  breezes   move, 
Like  whispers  of  a  spirit's  love,  — 
Then  to  Heaven  your  voices  raise, 
'Tis  the  hour  of  prayer  and  praise. 

When  the  tempest  cloud  is  breaking, 
And  the  thunder's  voice  is  waking, 
When  across  the  brow  of  night- 
Lurid  lightning  flashes  bright,  — 
Then  to  Heaven  in  heart  draw   near, 
'Tis  the  hour  of  holy  fear. 

Offer  not  your  vows  in  sadness, 
Raise  the  exulting  song  of  gladness  ; 
To  the  world  God's  works  are  shown, 
To  the  world  his  praise  be  known ; 
Sound  with  harp  and  timbrel  free, 
The  glories  of  the  Deity. 


23°  POEMS. 


FRAGMENT. 

^HENCE  come  this  painful  heaviness  of  soul, 

These  dark  presentiments  of  coming  ill, 
These  dreams  that  spurn  at  reason's  sage  con 
trol, 

And  these  thick-gathering  fantasies,  that  thrill 
The  spirit  with  deep  fearfulness,   and  chill 

The  heart  with  sudden  terror  ?     Are  they  sent 
As  portents  of  the  future  to  fulfill 

The  dark  decrees  of  fate  ?  or  only  meant 
To  sap  the  strength  of  mind,  man's  noblest  battlement  ? 

We  know  not  whence  they  come,  nor  can  we  tell 

Whither  they  flee  ;  we  only  feel  their  power 
Withering  our  hearts  by  some  mysterious  spell, 

And  stealing  o'er  us  even  in  the  hour 
When  hope  and  joy  are  brightest,  till  we  cower 

Before  these  shadows,  as  the  warrior  steed 
Undaunted  braves  the  battle's  iron  shower, 

And  yet  will  quiver  like  a  shaken  reed, 
If  through  a  moonlit  wood  his  onward  pathway  lead. 

O,  man  !  how  strange  a  mystery  thou  art, 
The  noblest  yet  the  weakest  of  creation  ; 

Unable  to  subdue  thine  own  proud  heart, 
Yet  swaying  oft  the  fortunes  of  a  nation. 


SONNET.  231 

God-like  in  thy  high  attributes  and  station, 

Worm-like  in  each  groveling  desire, 
Yet  even  in  thy  lowliest  degradation, 

Showing  forth  glimpses  of  that  heavenly  fire 
Which,  though  earth-stained  and   dim,  can   never   quite 
expire. 


SONNET. 

BORROW  has  changed  all  nature  to  my  view, 

The  woods   are   still    as   green,  the   fields   as 

say, 

The  stars  are  still  as  bright,  the  sky  as   blue, 

As  when  they  charmed  me  in  my  childhood's  day  ; 
But  now  in  all  their  beauty  I  can  see 

Something  that  ever  'minds  me  of  decay,  — 
Some  leafless  branch  deforms  the  stately  tree, 

Some  blight  still  lingers  on  the  buds  of  May, 
The  starry  watchers  wear  a  softened  light 

As  if  I  gazed  on  them  through  gathering  tears  ; 
But  when  I  turn  to  yon  pure  sky,  a  bright 

And  glorious  vision  to  my  mind    appears, 
Making  this  earth  seem  dull  beyond  compare, 
Since  only  heaven  above  is  changeless  as  'tis  fair. 


232  POEMS. 


THE  HYMN  IN  THE  TEMPEST. 

Mr.  Wesley,  in  his  Journal,  speaks  in  terms  of  the  highest  commendation  respecting 
twenty-six  Germans,  members  of  the  Moravian  Church,  who  came  to  America  in  the 
same  ship  with  himself.  He  continues,  "  There  was  now  an  opportunity  of  trying 
whether  they  were  delivered  from  the  spirit  of  fear  as  well  as  from  that  of  pride,  anger, 
and  revenge.  In  the  midst  of  the  psalm  wherewith  their  service  began,  the  sea  broke 
over,  split  the  mainsail  in  pieces,  covered  the  ship,  and  poured  in  between  the  decks 
as  if  the  great  deep  had  already  swallowed  us  up.  A  terrible  screaming  began  among 
the  English.  The  Germans  calmly  sung  on.  I  asked  one  of  them  afterwards, 
'  Were  you  not  afraid  ? '  He  answered,  '  I  thank  God,  no.'  I  asked,  '  But  were 
not  your  women  and  children  afraid  ? '  He  replied  mildly,  '  No,  our  women  and 
children  are  not  afraid  to  die.'"  —  WATSON'S  Life  of  Wesley. 

.TRANGE  forms  and  stranger  minds  and  hearts 

were  met 

In  the  frail  bark  which  bore  a  precious   freight 
To  the  new  land  of  promise.     Men  had  left 
The  scenes  of  childhood  and  the  marts  of  wealth 
To  seek  a  home  in  the  dim  forest's  shades, 
Where,  all  unchecked  by  man's  misguided   power, 
Their  prayers  might  rise  unfettered  to  their  God. 
'Twas  one  of  those  bright  days  when  nature  seems 
To  hold  her  quiet  sabbath,  when  the  earth 
And  sea  are  hushed  in  silence.     The  dark  waves 
Scarce  laved  the  sides  of  the  tall  ship,  and  played 
Around  the  keel  in  sportiveness.     There  stood 
Within  the  humble  cabin  a  small  band 
Of  Hernhuth's  lowly  children  ;    and  thus  rose 
Their  hymn  of  pure  thanksgiving  :  — 

Ancient  of  Days  ! 

With  meek  and  lowly  hearts  we  come 
To  pour  the  exulting  hymn  of  praise 


THE  HYMN  IN  THE    TEMPEST.  233 

To  thee,  who  led'st  us  from  the  home 
Where  our  feet  were  wont  to  roam, 
O'er  the  wild  untrodden   deep 
Where  the  scaly  monsters  sleep. 

Thy  mighty  will 
Thy  children  in  their  peril  saves, 

The  rushing  winds  are  hushed  and  still, 
And  slumber  bound  the  tumbling  waves 
Whose  deep  abysses  yawn  like  graves. 
To  an  infant  world  we  bring 
Tidings  of  a  Heavenly  King, 
Wonders  of  thy  power  and  grace, 
Saviour  of  a  fallen  race  ! 

Glory  to  God  ! 
For  within  the  trackless  wild 

Where  foot  of  man  has  never  trod, 
Where  never  heaven-sent  peace  has  smiled 
On  scenes  by  pagan  rites  defiled, 
Soon  our  hymns  with  grateful  note 
On  the  fragrant  breeze  shall  float, 
And  upon  the  air  shall  swell 
That  sweetest  sound  —  the  sabbath  bell. 

Hark  !  a  loud  crash, 
A  sudden  wrenching  of  the  lofty  masts, 
A  burst  of  mighty  winds  and  mountain  waves. 
On  came  the  sea :  gathering  new  strength  it  came, 
Till  on  the  reeling  vessel  full  it  broke, 
Rending  its  very  seams.     Between    the  decks 


234  POEMS. 

It  rushed  in  fury,  pouring  its  full  tide, 

Sweeping  all  things  before  it;   then   arose 

The  shriek  of  woman's   terror,  and  the  groan 

That  told  man's  sterner  agony.     Unmoved 

The  meek  Hernhuthers  stood :  woman  was  there 

With  her  calm  placid  brow ;   and  childhood,  too, 

With  sunny  smiles  yet  lurking  on  its  lip, 

Though  softened  to  that  pleasant  gravity 

Which  speaks  the  reverence  of  an  unstained  heart.  — 

A  vague  and  indistinct,  but  holy  fear : 

Yet  not  an  eyelid  trembled,  not  a  cheek 

Blanched  at  this  sight  of  terror ;  mothers  prest 

Their  infants  to  their  bosoms,  as  the  wave 

Curled  foaming  round  their  feet ;  and  sires,  too,  raised 

Their  bright-haired  boys  above  the  briny  stream  ; 

But  not  a  murmur  rose.     The  hymn  went  on  ; 

A  moment  it  had  paused,  then  rose  again 

The  low,  sweet  voice,  the  deep,  full  tone  —  but  changed 

The  spirit  of  the  hymn:  — 

Maker  of  heaven  and  earth  ! 
In  peril's  fearful  hour  we  call  on  thee  ; 

From  thee  the  mighty  elements  have  birth, 
Thou  mad'st,  and  thou  canst  still  the  raging  sea. 

Father,  which  art  in  heaven  ! 
We  are  thy  children,  fashioned  by  thy  hand,  — 

This  fleeting  breath  of  life  by  thee  was  given,  — 
As.  suppliants  now  before  thy  face  we  stand. 

Son  of  the  Father  God  ! 
Thou  who  didst  walk  unharmed  upon  the  wave, 


THE  HYMN  IN  THE    TEMPEST.  235 

Thou  who,  for  us,  didst  kiss  the  avenging  rod, 
Hear  now  thy  children's  prayer,  O  !  hear  and  save  ! 

Redeemer  of  the  world  ! 
If  thou  hast  doomed  us  to  this  bitter  death, 

If  in  the  boiling  strife  of  waters  hurled, 
We  must  resign  to  thee  our  struggling  breath  — 

Grant  us  thy  holy  power 
To  turn  unmoved  from  all  that  binds   the  heart, 

To  give  ourselves  to  thee  in  peril's  hour, 
And  as  in  faith  we  live,  in  faith  depart ! 

The  tempest-cloud  had  passed  ;  the  sudden  burst 

Of  elemental  fury  had  gone  by ; 

And  the  waves  leaped  against  the  vessel's  side 

With  a  low  moaning,  like  the  murmured  sounds 

That  mar  the  quiet  slumbers  of  a  child 

Wearied  with  its  waywardness.     The  hour 

Of  peril  was  forgotten  ;   but  one  heart 

Was  troubled  with  its  many  doubts  and  fears, 

And  to  the  humble  pastor  of  the  flock 

That  looked  so  fearless  on  the  face  of  death, 

He  came  with  anxious  air  :     "  Had  you  no  fear 

That  thus  your  song  was  poured  upon  the  winds, 

When  its  wild  rush  was  like  the  knell  of  death  ? " 

"God  rides  the  tempest;  wherefore  should  we  fear?" 

Was  the  meek  answer.  — "  But  your  wives,  your  babes, 

Have  they  no  terrors  ?  "  —  "  Surely  not :  they  know 

That  God  their  Father  rules  the  winds  and  waves  ; 

They  know  that  death  but  points  the  way  to  Him ; 

And  who  would  shrink  to  meet  a  parent's  face  ?  " 


236  POEMS. 


LINES 

SUGGESTED    BY   ACCIDENTALLY   MEETING   WITH    AN    OLD 
COPY    OF     THE     "  MYSTERIES     OF    UDOLPHO." 

ULL  twenty  years  have  past  since  last  my  look 
Was  left  upon  thy  page,  bewitching  book ! 
Aye,  twenty  years  ;  how  very  strange  it  seems 
Through  such  a  vista  to  behold  youth's  dreams, 
To  wander  so  far  back  o'er  life's  past  ways, 
And  see  what  shadows  charmed  our  childish  days. 

Scarce  nine  short  summers  had  I  seen,  when  first 
Radcliffe's  deep  horrors  on  my  vision  burst ; 
How  well  do  I  remember  the  lone  room 
Where  first  I  reveled  in  her  awful  gloom  ; 
'Twas  a  deserted  chamber,  which  o'erhung 
A  wild  neglected  garden,  where  flowers  sprung, 
Wasting  their  perfumed  beauty  on  the  air  — 
No  eye  save  mine  to  heed  that  they  were  fair. 
Old  cherry-trees  with  dark  green  foliage,  made 
Across  the  casement  there  a  pleasant  shade, 
While  at  the  sunset  hour  the  gorgeous  beams 
Pierced  the  thick  branches  with  their  golden  gleams. 
There  till  the  sunset  deepened  into  gray, 
And  twilight  into  night,  oft  would  I  stay, 
Pondering  o'er  many  a  tale  of  wild  romance, 
And  tasting  all  the  bliss  of  youth's  first  trance. 
In  that  sweet  solitude  I  learned  the  wild, 
Mysterious  fortunes  of  St.  Hubert's  child, 


STANZAS.  237 

Rapt  'mid  Udolpho's  horrors  until  night 
Shut  all  its  fearful  pictures  from  my  sight ; 
Then  sat  in  trembling  silence,  half  afraid 
To  look  within  the  chamber's  deepening  shade. 
The  very  leaves  of  the  tall  trees  then  stirred 
With  music  such  as  spirits  might  have  heard, 
While  in  each  darkened  corner  seemed  to  stand 
Spectres  with  mournful  look  and  beckoning  hand  ; 
Filling  my  inmost  soul  with  pleasant  fear, 
Till  some  familiar  voice  fell  on  my  ear, 
Breaking  the  spell  that  held  me  in  its  chain, 
And  bringing  me  to  common  life  again. 

O  many  an  hour  I  spent  in  that  lone  spot, 

All  else  on  earth  for  those  wild  tales  forgot, 

While  wise  ones  shook  their  heads  and  said  in  scorn, 

"  From  such  weak  dreams  is  hopeless  madness  born." 

Had  their  blood  flowed  less  sluggish  in  each  vein 

They  had  not  murmured  thus  at  fancy's  reign ; 

Her  gentle  rule  is  felt  in  every  heart 

Till  passion  bids  the  vanquished  queen  depart, 

And  oft  we  deeply  rue  the  fatal  day 

That  broke  her  sceptre  for  his  iron  sway. 


STANZAS. 

IS  done!  my  pleasant  home  of  happy  years 
Has  now  become  the  stranger's  heritage ; 
The  home  endeared  to  me  by  hopes  and  fears, 
Where  first  I  studied  life's  eventful   page, 


238  POEMS. 

And,  pondering  o'er  another's  heart,  was  shown 
The  unsuspected  mystery  of  my  own. 

Home  of  my  changeful  and  my  brightest  days  ! 

How  can  I  coldly  look  my  last  on  thee, 
When  thus,  where'er  I  turn,  my  saddened  gaze 

Beholds  some  object  dear  to  memory  ? 
The  wife's  sweet  ministry,  the  mother's  care, 
Love's  costliest  gifts,  —  have  all  been  offered  there. 

Within  this  room  how  oft  have  I  carest 
The  playful  children  sporting  at  my  knee  ; 

In  this,  ah!  here  my  trembling  lip  first  prest 
The  little  one  who  fills  our  halls  with  glee : 

Through  brighter  scenes  perchance  my  steps  may  roam, 

But  none  will  be  like  this  —  the  wife's  first  home. 

My  passionate  existence  has  gone  by, 

Imagination  now  has  lost  its  power, 
The  feelings  that  within  my  bosom  lie 

Are  colored  only  by  the  present  hour, 
For  gentle  fancy  can  no  more  impart 
To  life's  frail  flowers  the  freshness  of   the  heart. 

And,  therefore,  do  I  feel  that  never  more 
Another  home  like  this  to  me  will  seem, 

Association's  magic  spell  is  o'er, 

Truth  has  destroyed  each  wild  romantic   dream  ; 

I  hear  no  angel  voices  in  the  breeze  — 

Houses  are  now  but  houses,  trees  but  trees. 


THE  MOTHER'S  SOLACE.  239 

Yet  am  I  happier  far  than  when  in  youth, 

I  gave  my  heart  to  fantasies  unreal, 
My  lot  has  been  to  find  the  world  of  truth 

Brighter  and  lovelier  than  the  world  ideal  ; 
Nor  would  I  give  for  fancy's  brightest   glow 
The  joys  that  now  my  waking  senses   know. 

To  thee,  my  pleasant  home,  were  linked  my  last 
And  sweetest  memories  ;  no  more  I  bind 

My  thoughts  to  things  inanimate,  or  cast 
My  tenderness  abroad  upon  the  wind  ; 

Wherever  Love  erects  his  shrine  shall  be 

Henceforth  the  dearest,  happiest   home  to  me. 


THE  MOTHER'S  SOLACE. 

When  the  Stoic  philosopher  was  informed  of  the  death  of  his  beloved  son,  he  calmly 
replied,  "  I  always  knew  that  he  was  mortal  ;  "  but  how  much  more  reason  has  a 
Christian  parent  to  be  resigned  under  such  an  affliction,  when  she  can  look  on  the 
lifeless  form  of  her  child,  and  in  the  language  of  undoubting  faith,  exclaim,  "  I  know 
that  this  mortal  shall  put  on  immortality/' 

KNEW  that  thou  wert  mortal !    aye,  my  heart 
Thrilled    with   vague  terror,    even    while    the 

beams 

Of  thy  soft,  loving  eyes  could  still  impart 
A  joy  as  sinless  as  thine  own  pure  dreams  ; 
Thou  wert  too  like  a  thing  of  heavenly  birth 
To  tarry  long  upon  this  darkened  earth. 


240  POEMS. 

I  knew  that  thou  wert  mortal ;   the   blue  vein 
Whose  delicate  tracery  adorned  thy  brow, 

I  knew  might  bear  the  rushing  tide  of  pain, 
Instead  of  life's  pure  current,  in  its  flow, 

I  knew  disease  thy  rosy  cheek  might  pale, 

And  the  hour  come  when  flesh  and  heart  should  fail. 

I  knew  that  thou  wert  mortal ;   yet  my  tears 
Have  flowed  in  rivers  o'er  thy  lowly  bed  ; 

The  joys  of  life,  the  hopes  of  coming  years,    • 

Were    crushed   when    thou    wert   numbered   with    the 
dead, 

And  life  itself  must  cease  ere  I  forget 

The  bitter  yearnings  of  my  vain  regret. 

I  knew  that  thou  wert  mortal ;   but  the  God 
Who  filled  with  deathless  love  a  mother's  heart, 

Meant  not  that  she  should  kiss  the  chastening  rod 
Without  one  feeling  of  its  anguished  smart. 

Can  it  be  sin  to  bow  the    mourning  head 

When  even  Jesus  wept  o'er  Lazarus  dead  ? 

I  knew  that  thou  wert  mortal ;   but  can  naught 
Bring  solace  to  the  soul  in  sorrow's  hour  ? 

Is  there  not  consolation  in  the  thought 

That  Christ  has  robbed  the  grave  of  half  its  power? 

Not  without  hope,  beloved  one,  do  I  weep, 

Thou  yet  shall  waken  from  thy  dreamless  sleep. 

I  knew  that  thou  wert  mortal ;   but  the  bright 
And  glorious  beauty  of  thine  earthly  face 


A  UTUMN  E  VENING.  2  4 1 

Would  seem  all  dim  beside  the  radiant  light 

Which  crowns  thy  spirit  now  with  cherub  grace  : 
I  know  thee  now  immortal,  —  and  I  trust 
To  meet  thee  yet  again,  though  dust  return  to  dust. 


AUTUMN    EVENING. 

"And  Isaac  went  out  to  meditate  in  the  field  at  the  even-tide." 

forth  at  morning's  birth, 
When  the  glad  sun,  exulting  in  his  might, 
&   Comes    from    the    dusky,    curtained    tents    of 

night, 

Shedding  his  gifts  of  beauty  o'er  the  earth  ; 
When  sounds  of  busy  life  are  on  the  air, 
And  man  awakes  to  labor  and  to  care, 
Then  hie  thee  forth  •  go  out  amid  thy  kind, 
Thy  daily  task  to  do,  thy  harvest  sheaves  to  bind. 

Go  forth  at  noontide  hour, 
Beneath  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day 
Pursue  the  labors  of  thine  onward  way, 

Nor  murmur  if  thou  miss  life's  morning  flower ; 
Where'er  the  footsteps  of  mankind  are  found 
Thou  still  mayst  find  some  spot  of  hallowed  ground, 
Where  duty  blossoms  even  as  the  rose, 
Though  sharp  and  stinging   thorns    the    beauteous    bud 
inclose. 

16 


242  POEMS. 

Go  forth  at  even-tide, 

When  sounds  of  toil  no  more  the  soft   air  fill, 
When  e'en  the  hum  of  insect  life  is  still, 

And  the  bird's  song  on  evening's  breeze  has  died  ; 
Go  forth,  as  did  the  patriarch  of  old, 
And  commune  with  thy  heart's  deep  thoughts  untold, 
Fathom  thy  spirit's  hidden  depths,  and  learn 
The  mysteries  of  life,  the  fires  that  inly  burn. 

Go  forth  at  even-tide, 
The  even-tide  of  summer,  when  the  trees 
Yield  their  frail  honors  to  the  passing  breeze, 

And  woodland  paths  with  autumn  tints  are  dyed  ; 
When  the  mild  sun  his  paling  lustre  shrouds 
In  gorgeous  draperies  of  golden  clouds, 
Then  wander  forth  'mid  beauty  and  decay, 
To  meditate  alone,  —  alone  to  watch  and  pray. 

Go  forth  at  even-tide, 

Commune  with  thine  own  bosom  and  be  still, 
Check  the  wild  impulses  of  wayward  will, 

And  learn  the  nothingness  of  human  pride  ; 
Morn  is  the  time  to  act,  noon  to  endure, 
But  O,  if  thou  wouldst  keep  thy  spirit  pure, 
Turn  from  the  beaten  path  by  worldlings  trod  ; 
Go  forth  at  even-tide,  in  heart  to  walk  with  God. 


BALLAD.  243 


BALLAD.1 

NEVER  shall  I  forget  the  song 
I  heard  in  the  north  countrie, 
Crooned  forth  by  an  old  and  withered  crone 
As  she  sat  'neath  a  blasted  tree. 

Her  back  was  bowed  with  the  weight  of  years, 

Her  locks  were  silvery  white, 
And  the  ghastly  glare  of  her  light-blue  eye 

Seemed  a  church-yard's  ominous  light. 

Slowly  she  rocked  to  and  fro, 

With  hands  clasped  over  her  knee, 
And  sang,  "  The  world  is  passing  away, 

But  God  has  forgotten  me  ! 

"  Twice  fifty  years  have  these  dim  eyes  seen, 

And  a  weary  lot  I  dree, 
The  days  of  man  are  threescore  and  ten, 
But  God  has  forgotten  me ! 

"  'Tis  a  fearful  thing  to  behold  the  graves 

Where  our  bosom's  treasures  lie, 
To  feel  alone  in  this  weary  world, 
And  know  that  we  cannot  die. 


1  Founded  on  a  story,  which  appeared  in  a  newspaper,  of  a  woman  in  Hungary, 
who,  at  the  age  of  one  hundred  years,  committed  suicide  from  the  fear  that  God  had 
forgotten  her. 


244  POEMS. 

"  O,  dark  and  evil  my  life  has  been, 

And  lonely  it  still  must  be, 
But  the  heaviest  thought  in  my  heavy  heart 
Is  that  God  has  forgotten  me  ! 

"  O,  many  and  many  a  year  agone 

This  foul  visage  was  passing  fair, 
And  the  fisherman's  child  felt  a  queenly  pride 
As  she  braided  her  raven  hair. 

"  But  youth  and  beauty  have  withered  away, 

Like  flowers  on  a  blasted  lea  ; 
Men  turn  in  scorn  from  my  wrinkled  brow, 
And  God  has  forgotten  me  ! 

"  Full  fifty  years  'neath  the  cold  grave-stone 

Lies  he  who  once  called  me  bride ; 
And  O  !  how  oft  have  I  made  my  moan, 
And  prayed  to  lie  by  his  side  ! 

"  Four  boys,  four  brave  and  stately  boys, 

Once  cheered  my  lonely  hearth, 
But  none  are  left  to  weep  o'er  their  graves 
Save  her  who  gave  them  birth. 

"  Alone,  alone  in  this  weary  world, 
I  look  on  man's  grief  or  glee, 
Alike  unheeding  their  smiles  or  tears, 
For  God  has  forgotten  me  ! 

"  Death  garners  up  the  golden  sheaves 
For  heaven's  rich  granary, 


STANZAS.  245 

But  I  am  left  like  a  worthless  weed  ; 
O  !  God  has  forgotten  me  !  " 

On  the  blast  was  borne  that  fearful  cry, 

As  onward  in  haste  I  sped ; 
I  came  again  —  the  old  crone  was  there, 

But  no  longer  she  envied  the  dead. 

From  a  knotted  branch,  in  mid  air  she  hung 

(For  such  fruit  a  fitting  tree), 
And  her  life's  last  deed,  like  her  latest  word, 

Said,  "  God  has  forgotten  me  !  " 


STANZAS. 

Life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim."  — Byron. 

[LAS  !    for  the  bard,  who  thus    murmured,  while 

tasting 
The  sweetest   draught  fame  e'er  gave  mortal 

to  sip, 

Who  thus  his  regrets  o'er  the  bubble  was  wasting, 
Though    the    bright  wine    beneath    it  was  wooing  his 
lip. 

Alas !  for  the  bard,  whose  green  laurels,  distilling 
A  poison  so  deadly,  embittered  life's  draught ; 

Far  happier  the  few  for  whom  love's  hand  is  filling 
A  cup  which  in  age,  as  in  youth,  may  be  quaffed. 


246  POEMS. 

For  me  life  has  been,  as  years  onward  have  glided, 
A  beaker  o'erflowing  with  brilliant  champagne ; 

The  first  effervescence  has  long  since  subsided, 
But  the  sparkle  and  flavor,  I  know,  yet  remain. 


LINES. 

OME  to  the  vintage  feast ! 
The  west  wind  sighs  'mid  the  stately  flowers 
That  deck  so  brightly  our  garden  bowers, 

Flowers  which  awoke  as  the  summer  died, 

To  rival  her  many-colored  pride, 

Flowers  whose  rich  tint  and  gorgeous  dye 

An  eastern  monarch's  pomp  outvie. 

Come  to  the  vintage  feast ! 
The  sun  shines  out,  but  a  soft  mist  lies 
Like  a  gossamer  veil  o'er  the  autumn  skies, 
The  air  has  stolen  its  sweet  perfume 
From  the  crimson  clover's  rich  beds  of  bloom, 
And  the  insect  hum  is  as  musical  still 
As  if  summer  yet  ruled  over  valley  and  hill. 

Come  to  the  vintage  feast ! 
The  vine  bends  down  with  its  purple  fruit, 
The  foliage  lies  thick  round  its  gnarled  root, 
For  the  leaves  are  dropping  as  if  to  show 
The  purple  clusters  that  lie  below, 


THE    WIFE'S  OFFERING   ON  THE  NEW  YEAR.     247 

And  the  tendrils  close  round  the  lattice  twine, 
As  if  asking  support  for  the  burdened  vine. 

Come  to  the  vintage  feast! 
In  Hebe's  temple  is  spread  the  board 
With  the  golden  treasures  of  autumn  stored ; 
The  sun  of  our  native  skies  has  shed 
O'er  the  ripened  fruitage  its  glowing  red  ; 
But  the  grapes  that  grow  'neath  a  warmer  heaven 
The  sparkling  wine  to  our  feast  has  given ; 
Then  come  and  awaken  the  choral  hymn, 
While  the  bead-drop  foams  on  the  beaker's  brim. 


THE  WIFE'S  OFFERING  ON  THE    NEW    YEAR. 

"  Aye,  years  may  pass,  but  yet  Time's  rapid  flight 

Would  be  unheeded,  were  it  not  he  flings 
A  cloud  o'er  all  youth's  hopes  and  fancies  bright ; 

Alas  !  he  bears  upon  his  shadowy  wings 
Darkness,  distrust,  and  sorrow  ;  and  the  mind 
Pines  'mid  the  gloom  to  which  it  is  consigned."1 

UCH  was    my  song  when   my  young   heart  was 

like  an  untried  lute, 

Full   of   earth's    sweetest  melodies,  but  all  un 
touched  and  mute  ; 
And,  like  the  lute  when  swept  at  eve  by  zephyr's  weary 

wings, 

Sometimes    a    broken    melody  would    murmur   from   its 
strings. 

1  See  page  nS. 


248  POEMS. 

I  knew  my  heart   had    richer    tones ;    I  felt  it  had   the 

power 
To  pour  a  deep  and  thrilling  note  in  love's  impassioned 

hour ; 
I  longed,  yet  feared,  to  wake  such  strains,  for  ah !  full 

well   I  knew 
The    hand    that    called    its    music  forth    might  rend  its 

frail  chords  too. 

Heaven's  blessings  on  thee,  dear  one  ;  thou  first  touched 
my  silent  heart, 

And  bade  it  strains  of  hope  and  joy,  as  well  as  love 
impart ; 

Like  Memnon's  harp,  it  could  not  wake  beneath  a 
meaner  light, 

Its  perfect  tones  were  only  poured  to  greet  the  sun 
beam  bright. 

Years  have  passed  by  since  first  I  gave  my  youthful 
heart  to  thee, 

Yet  still  it  breathes  its  early  song  in  love's  sweet  mel 
ody  ; 

But  deeper  is  its  music  now  —  the  mother  and  the 
wife 

Has  learned  with  better  skill  to  frame  the  harmonies 
of  life. 

My  early  joys !     O  what  were  they  to  those   that  thrill 

me  now, 
When  thus  with  calm,  deep  tenderness  I  gaze  upon  thy 

brow, 


THE  PASSING    YEAR.  249 

Or  listen  to  the  lisping    tones    that  fill    our   home  with 

glee, 
And  in  our  children's   sunny  looks  still  find  a  trace  of 

thee? 

Thrice  have  we  watched  together,  dear,  the  dying  year's 

decay  ; 
Thrice    have    our    eyes  together    met   the    New    Year's 

opening  day ; 

Yet  every  hour  that  glided  on  toward  the  shadowy  past, 
But  found    me  at   thy  side,  beloved,  still   happier   than 

the  last. 

Heaven's  blessings  on  thee,  clear  one  ;  time  may  sweep 

my  joys  away  ; 
The  bliss  that  fills  my  spirit  now  may  know  no  second 

day; 
Yet  will  I  kneel  in  thankfulness,  resigned  to  Heaven's 

high  will, 
And  'mid  the  wreck  of  hope   rejoice,  so   thou   art   left 

me  still. 


THE  PASSING  YEAR. 

T  passes   on,  the  fading  year,  with  its  dim  and 

shadowy  train, 

Its  vanished   hours,  and  by-past  days  of  pleas 
ure  and  of  pain  ; 


250  POEMS. 

It  passes   on,  with    solemn   step,  toward    that   shoreless 

sea 
Whose  tideless  waters  only  stir  to  whelm  mortality. 

It  passes  on ;  among  the  tombs  its  weary  feet  have  trod, 
Too  often  has  its  pathway  led  across  the  burial  sod  ; 
And  many  a  melancholy  eye  that  marks  its  swift  decay 
Is  weeping  o'er  the   cherished  joys   and  hopes  it  bears 
away. 

It  passes  on  ;  and  shall  it  fade  without  one  parting 
song 

From  one  around  whose  sunny  path  unnumbered  bless 
ings  throng  ? 

What  have  I  done  to  merit  such  exemption  from  the 
doom 

That  shrouds  full  many  a  worthier  heart  in  sorrow's 
darkest  gloom  ? 

It    passes    on  ;    and   yet    its    steps    crush    not   a  single 

flower 
That    blossoms    in    my  joyous  way  or    cheers  my  quiet 

bower. 

It  passes  on  ;  and  though  its  trace  is  left  upon  my  brow, 
Yet   never    was   my  spirit  filled  with   deeper   bliss  than 

now. 

It  passes  on ;  a  few  brief  hours  its  last  farewell  will  see ; 
Then  let  me  breathe  my  heart's  deep  thoughts,  my  own 
best  love,  to  thee. 


THE  PASSING    YEAR.  251 

Where  shall  I  find  the  thrilling  words  which  ought  alone 

to  tell 
The   grateful    tenderness    and   love   that   in  my   bosom 

swell  ? 

Since    thou   first   taught   my  youthful  mind  to  know  its 

latent  powers, 
Thy  kindness,  dearest  one,  has  been  the  measure  of  my 

hours  ; 

And  not  a  single  day  has  past  without  its  precious  store 
Of  gentle   looks   and  words    that   made   my  cup  of  joy 

run  o'er. 

It  passes  on  ;   when   last  I  watched   the   sunset  of  the 

year, 
My  heart,  e'en  while  it  thrilled  with  joy,  shook  with  a 

sudden  fear; 
I  dared  not  hope  another  year  would  see  such  blessings 

last; 
Yet  has  another  fleeted  on,  far  happier  than  the  last. 

It  passes  on,  the  fading  year,  and  leaves  me  at  thy  side, 
Regarding    thee    with    woman's    love    and    more    than 

woman's  pride  ; 
Would   that   affection's   hidden   thoughts   upon    thy   life 

could  shed 
Such  blessings,  dear  one,  as  thy  care  pours  ever  on  my 

head  ! 


252  POEMS. 


THE  WIFE'S  SONG  ON  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

"  Since  my  first  days  of  passion,  grief,  or  pain, 

Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string, 
And  both  may  jar  ;  it  may  be  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing." 

Childe  Harold. 

harp  has  lost  no  string,  love,  but   rust  is   on 

its  chords, 
And  when    I    seek   its   melody    no    answer   it 

affords  ; 

It  has  alone  a  single  tone,  and  that  is  like  the  dove's, 
It  will  not  wake  to  any  touch  unless  the  hand  be  love's. 

My  harp  has  lost  no  string,  love,  but   still   its  voice  is 

mute, 

And  said  I  rust  was  on  the  chords  of  my  neglected  lute  ? 
Ah,  no  !    'tis   but   the  rosy  wreaths  that   happiness   has 

hung 
Too  thickly  o'er  it,  which  have  thus  the  chain  of  silence 

flung. 

My  harp  has  lost  no  string,  love,  but  ever  in  mine  ear 
The  voice  of  calm  contentment  breathes  a  melody  more 

dear  ; 

And  I  forget  the  witching  tales  that  poesy  once  told, 
While  listening  to  the  sweeter  ones  which  truth  can  now 

unfold. 

My  heart  has  lost  no  string,  love,  for  thou  hast  watched 
it  well ; 


THE   WIFE'S  SONG   ON  THE  NEW  YEAR.       253 

Thy  gentle  hand  has  guarded  it  from   sorrow's  wasting 

spell ; 

And  lightly  do  its  chords   reply  to  every  impulse  now, 
Aye,  far  more  lightly  than  when   youth  was  written  on 

my  brow. 

My  heart   has    lost  no  string,  love,  it  bounds  thy  voice 

to  meet, 

And  vibrates  as  exultingly  thy  coming  step  to  greet, 
As  when  in  girlhood's  sunny  hour  it  gave  itself  to  thee, 
And  poured  in  strains  unskilled  and  rude  its  deep  idol 
atry. 

My  heart  has  lost  no  string,  love,  though  sometimes  it 

may  jar,  — 
The   harmonies   of  life    too    oft    a   careless   touch   may 

mar  ; 
But  when  attuned  by  thy  dear  hand,  not  one  discordant 

tone 
Breaks    the   full  tide  of  grateful  song  it  pours  for  thee 

alone. 

And  yet  in  vain  I  seek,  love,  to  sing  as  I  have    sung ; 
The  visions   have   departed   now   that   once  around  me 

hung  • 
The    doubt,  the   fear,  the   sickening   pang  of   love    and 

hope  deferred, 
These  were  the  wild   emotions    that   my  youthful   spirit 

stirred. 

I  sing  not  as  I  sung,  love,  —  grief  has  full  many  a  strain; 
And  poesy  delights  to  shed  her  balm  o'er  hours  of  pain  ; 


254  POEMS. 

But  I  have  known  too  much  of  joy ;  she  will  not  deign 
to  shed 

The  balsam  that  might  soothe  despair,  upon  the  flower- 
decked  head. 

I  sing  not  as  I  sung,  love,  yet  must  I  weave  again 
My  early  song  of  gratitude,  though  wearisome  the  strain  : 
How  can  I  vary  such  a  lay  ?     I  would  not  change  the 

theme 
For  all  the  brightest  fantasies  that  ever  poets   dream. 

I  sing  not  as  I  sung,  love,  yet  shall  the  new-born  year 
Find  me  without  my  morning  gift  for  one  so  more  than 

dear  ? 

Humble  the  gift,  yet  who  would  bid  the  votary  depart 
When  offering  at  her   idol's    shrine    her  all,  —  a  faithful 

heart  ? 


TO 


does  my  spirit  yet  retain 
Enough  of  minstrelsy 

Dreath  once  more  its  wonted  strain 
Of  grateful  love  to  thee  ? 
Though  silence  broods  with  heavy  wing 

O'er  my  neglected  lute, 
Yet  when  for  thee,  love,  I  would  sing, 
How  can  my  heart  be  mute? 

By  fancy's  vague,  uncertain  ray, 
Or  memory's  lamp  alone, 


TO   . 

Are  seen  the  shadowy  forms  that  play 

Round  poesy's  far  throne  ; 
How,  then,  may  I  e'er  hope  to  be 

Blessed  with  a  poet's  sight? 
The  chambers  of  mine  imagery 

Are  failed  with  earthly  light. 

Hope,  fancy,  memory,  —  what  are  they 

To  one  whose  heart  can  find 
In  every  blissful,  passing  day, 

The  joys  of  all  combined  ? 
Thou  hast  fulfilled  mine  every  hope  ; 

The  past  is  nought  to  me  ; 
And  Fancy  in  her  wildest  scope 

Can  bring  back  nought  like  thee. 

The  love  that  once  was  proudly  shrined, 

And  worshipped  with  the  lyre, 
An  humbler,  happier  home  can  find 

Beside  our  household  fire. 
He  asks  not  now  for  minstrel  songs 

With  passion's  fervor  fraught, 
When  every  word  to  him  belongs, 

And  every  gentle  thought. 

I  look,  beloved,  upon  thy  face, 
And  tears  my  fond  eyes  fill, 

No  changes  there  time's  hand  can  trace, 
Fadeless  in  beauty  still  ; 

Thy  smiles,  the  sunshine  of  my  heart, 
Still  o'er  me  brightly  beam, 


255 


256  POEMS. 

And,  as  I  watch  the  years  depart, 
Life  seems  a  summer  dream. 

But  yet  to-night  my  spirit  quails 

Before  some  shadowy  fear, 
And  e'en  thy  sweet  voice,  dear  one,  fails 

My  drooping  soul  to  cheer  ; 
I  listen  to  the  solemn  knell 

Of  the  departing  year, 
As  if  it  were  a  passing  bell 

Above  some  loved  one's  bier. 

The  hand  of  pain  is  on  my  brow, 

My  spirit's  glow  is  dim  ; 
I  cannot  meet  thee,  clearest,  now 

With  love's  accustomed  hymn ; 
Yet,  trust  me,  though  I  cannot  greet 

With  song  the  opening  year. 
Ne'er  did  my  heart  more  warmly  beat, 

Ne'er  wert  thou  half  so  dear. 


STANZAS. 

a    mournful    strain    is    all    the    New 
Year's  gift  I  bring, 
For  images  of  by-gone  years  throng   round  me 

as  I  sing  ; 

My  spirit's  joyousness  is  gone,  I  can  no  longer  fling 
The  sunshine  of  a  happy  heart  o'er  every  earthly  thing. 


STANZAS.  257 

A  shadow  lies  upon  my  path  which    naught   can    chase 

away, 
Save  the   great    Sun  of  Righteousness  with   healing   in 

its  ray ; 
A  shadow  from  the    mountain  dark  o'er  which  our  feet 

must  tread, 
To  meet  again  our  loved  of  yore,  our  treasures  of  the 

dead. 

That  shadow  lies  upon  my  path,  and  pleasures  'neath 
its  gloom, 

Like  flowerets  grown  in  darkness,  now  have  lost  their 
brilliant  bloom  ; 

My  clays  of  buoyant  happiness  have  with  my  youth  been 
spent, 

Yet  will  I  strive,  whate'er  my  lot,  therewith  to  be  con 
tent  ! 

Alas  !  the  magic  cup  of  life  but  sparkles  near  the  brim  ; 
The  music  of  this  weary  world  is  but  a  morning  hymn  ; 
And  like  a  winged  dream  of  night  our  youthful  days 

depart, 
Leaving    but    half-traced    images    within    the    saddened 

heart. 

Yes,  all  our  joys  in  after  years  are  like  Egyptian  feasts, 

Where  Memory's  veiled  and  shrouded  form  sits  first 
amid  the  guests  ; 

In  vain  the  gay  laugh  circles  round,  the  wine-cup  man 
tles  high, 

The  glitter  but  of  unshed  tears  lights  up  the  listless  eye. 
17 


258  POEMS. 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

AIR  :  "  Benedetta  sia  la  madre." 

HEN  the  summer  sun  declineth 

T'ward  the  glowing  western  sea, 
When  the  star  of  evening  shineth, 
Then  my  thoughts  are  thine,  Marie  ; 
For  at  such  an  hour  I've  wandered 

On  the  pebbly  shore  with  thee, 
And  o'er  many  a  bright  dream  pondered, 
By  thy  side,  my  own  Marie. 

When  the  autumn  wind  is  stealing 

The  green  garb  from  each  tree, 
Then  my  heart  throbs  with  a  feeling 

Which  is  thine,  all  thine,  Marie  ; 
For  'twas  autumn  when  thy  gladness 

Filled  my  quiet  home  with  glee, 
And  memory's  pleasant  sadness. 

Brings  thine  image  back,  Marie. 


TWELVE  YEARS  AGO. 

WELVE  years  ago  !  how  strange  it  seems 

To  wander  so  far  back, 
And  see  so  many  mile-stones  stand 
Along  life's  o'erpast  track ! 


TWELVE    YEARS  AGO.  259 

Twelve  years  ago  my  steps  were  light 

Beneath  youth's  bright  sunshine, 
For  then  I  was  but  seventeen, 

Xow  I  am  twenty-nine. 

Twelve  years  ago  I  loved  to  pore 

O'er  tales  of  wild  romance 
(Those  tales  that  lull  the  heart  so  soon 

In  passion's  rapturous  trance), 
And  pined  to  meet  on  this  dull  earth 

With  beings  so  divine  ; 
My  longings  have  been  long  since  done, 

For  I  am  twenty-nine. 

I  loved  Miss  Landon's  poetry  then, 

Hung  o'er  each  witching  strain, 
And,  could  my  lips  have  coined  such  words. 

Had  answered  such  again  ; 
Xo  empty  phrases  then  I  saw, 

I  marked  no  rugged  line  — 
But  something  more  than  sentiment 

I  seek  at  twenty-nine. 

I  did  not  then  sit  coldly  down 

To  learn  an  author's  style, 
Fancy  and  feeling  —  these  alone 

My  taste  could  then  beguile  ; 
I  pondered  o'er  the  dreams  which  youth 

Can  feel  but  not  define  ; 
I  can  describe,  not  feel  them  now, 

Since  I  am  twenty-nine. 


260  FOEMS. 

Twelve  years  ago  I  loved  to  sit 

At  sunset's  gorgeous  hour, 
And  image  in  the  rosy  clouds 

My  own  bright  summer  bower. 
But  who  when  gazing  through  lunettes 

Air-castles  could  design? 
My  chateaux  now  are  built  on  earth, 

Since  I  am  twenty-nine. 

No  more  ethereal  in  my  tastes, 

I've  learned,  as  I'm  a  sinner, 
To  make  a  breakfast  on  hot  rolls, 

And  eat  beefsteaks  for  dinner  ; 
And  sometimes,  too,  I  sip  a  glass 

Of  good  old  racy  wine  ; 
I  never  did  such  vulgar  things 

Ere  I  was  twenty-nine. 

'Tis  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  know 

That  we  are  growing  old, 
For  no  one  likes  to  watch  Time's  glass, 

E'en  when  its  sands  are  gold. 
My  days  of  young  romance  are  past, 

Yet  why  should  I  repine  ? 
No  dream  in  youth  was  half  so  sweet 

As  truth  at  twenty-nine. 


"  TOUJOURS  PERDRIX."  261 

"TOUJOURS  PERDRIX." 

,THE    LAMENT    OF    A    MAN    ABOUT   TOWN. 

'M  sick  of  balls,  soirees,  and  parties, 

And  long  from  such  scenes  to  be  free  ; 
Flirtation,  I  own,  is  quite  pleasant, 
But  I'm  weary  of  "  toujours  perdrix." 

I  go  to  a  wedding  on  Monday, 

White  satin  and  blushes  I  see  ; 
A  blue-coated  groomsman  is  carving 

The  bride-cake  —  still,  "toujours  perdrix." 

On  Tuesday  a  party  awaits    me  ; 

Oysters  pickled  and  stewed  there  may  be, 
With  champagne  and  creams  for  the  ladies, 

But  still  it  is  "  toujours  perdrix." 

A  soiree  comes  next ;  'tis  the  banquet 

Of  reason,  not  sense  ;  so  you  see 
We  have  little  to  eat,  but  the  folly 

And  flirting  are  "toujours  perdrix." 

I  go  to  a  ball,  and  much  marvel 

To  see  with  what  infinite  glee 
The  dancers  enjoy  the  dull  music 

Which  I've  heard  till  'tis  "  toujours  perdrix." 

I'll  post  to  the  country,  and  bury 
My  vexation  beneath  some  old  tree, 


262  POEMS. 

And  try  whether  life  in  the  wildwoods 
Can  ever  be  "toujours  perdrix." 

I'll  flirt  with  some  fair  country  maiden 
(To  woman's  heart  I  have  a  key), 

And  try  whether  rustic  flirtation 

Like  the  city's  is  "toujours  perdrix." 

I've  tried  the  experiment  fairly  — 
No  more  rural  pleasures  for  me  ; 

Give  me  back  the  refinement  of  cities, 
E'en  though  it  be  "  toujours  perdrix." 

The  sun  in  the  country  has  baked  me ; 

From  dust  not  a  pathway  is  free  ; 
The  milkmaids  are  horribly  freckled, 

And  as  wild  as  if  all  were  "  perdrix." 

If  I  must  eat  of  one  dish  forever, 
And  no  longer  a  novelty  see, 

Why,  rather  than  greens  and  fat  bacon, 
I  think  I  like  "toujours  perdrix." 


LINES  ON  A  PORTRAIT. 
LOVED    thee    not ;    yet  mournful  thoughts  are 

mm     r  rushins 

vQl&v       Upon  my  heart  while  gazing  on  that  face, 
And  tears  unbidden  to  mine  eyes  are  gushing  — 

Tears,  whose  deep  source  to  memory's  fount  I  trace  ; 


LINES  ON  A   PORTRAIT.  263 

Yet  why  should  I  lament  thy  hapless  lot? 

For  thou  wert  naught  to  me  —  I  loved  thee  not. 

I  loved  thee  not  ;  yet  intellect  was  thine, 

And  lofty  aspirations  after  fame  ; 
For  honor  in  thy  soul  had  found  a  shrine, 

And  thou  didst  hope  to  win  a  deathless  name  ; 
But  thou  art  dead,  unnoticed,  and  forgot; 
Yet  what  is  this  to  me  ?  —  I  loved  thee  not. 

I  loved  thee  not;  and  haclst  thou  died  in  age, 
With  troops  of  tender  friends  around  thy  bed, 

Had  love  been  there  thy  sufferings  to  assuage, 
Had  some  kind  breast  upheld  thy  aching  head, 

I  had  not  then  remembered  thee  ;  no  spot 

In  memory's  waste  was  thine  —  I  loved  thee  not. 

I  loved  thee  not ;  yet  when  thy  spirit  passed 
Thus  in  thy  manhood's  prime  from  earth  away, 

When  those  thou  lovedst  forsook  thee  at  the  last, 
And  none  beside  thee  knelt  to  weep  and  pray, 

My  heart  did  thrill  in  pity  for  the  lot 

Of  one  so  gifted,  though  I  loved  thee  not. 


264  POEMS. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  ARTIST. 

shall  -we  mourn  thee,  gifted  one  ?  how  wail 
The    fate    that    snatched    thee    thus    in   youth 

away, 
Ere  in  life's  wreath  one  rose-bud  had  grown  pale, 

Ere  one  dark  cloud  had  dimmed  thine  early  day  ? 
How  speak  the  sorrow  that  our  bosoms  thrilled, 
When  death  the  pulses  of  thy  warm  heart  stilled  ? 

How  shall  we  mourn  thee  ?     Thou  wert  of  the  few 
Who  walk  the  earth  in  majesty  of  mind ; 

Genius  had  given  its  treasures  to  thy  view  — 
The  painter's  eye,  the  poet's  thought  combined, 

The  soul  to  image  all  things  pure  and  bright, 

The  skill  to  give  them  to  our  daily  sight. 

Alas  !  that  hand  its  cunning  has  forgot, 

That  eye  is  closed  upon  all  earthly  things  ; 

On  thy  dull  ear  the  voice  of  praise  falls  not, 
Thy  heart  is  cold  to  love's  soft  whisperings. 

Called  from  life's  feast  too  soon,  thou  hast  but  quaffed 

Of  love,  joy,  fame,  one  deep  and  final  draught. 

Like  the  Olympian  victor,  thou  hadst  won 
The  goal  of  all  thy  hopes  ;  and  in  the  hour 

When  toil  was  past  and  glory  had  begun, 

Then  came  the  King  of  Terrors  in  his  power, 

And  at  his  touch  thou  didst  in  dust  lay  clown 

The  youthful  head  girt  with  its  laurel  crown. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A    YOUNG  ARTIST.      265 

All  earthly  gifts  were  thine  save  length  of  days ; 

And  dare  we  ask  why  God  denied  thee  this  ? 
Haply  the  grave  that  shuts  thee  from  our  gaze, 

Closing  upon  thee  in  thine  hour  of  bliss, 
Was  meant  to  save  thee  all  the  varied  woe 
That  waits  the  weary  wayfarer  below. 

"  Thy  sun  went  down  at  noon,"  but  not  in  clouds  ; 

And  while  we  watch  in  tears  its  swift  decline, 
We  know  that  though  death's  awful  shadow  shrouds 

Its  brightness  now,  yet  it  shall  once  more  shine 
Among  the  host  of  heaven ;  and  we,  who  bear 
Life's  lessons  in  our  hearts,  may  hope  to  greet  thee  there. 


SONGS,  FROM  CONSTANCE  LATIMER. 

£  S  thy  cheek  fair,  my  brother  ? 

Are  thine  eyes  bright  ? 
Hast  thou  the  smile  of  our  mother, 
Her  remembered  smile  of  light? 
Art  thou  like  the  gentle  vision 

That  comes  to  my  sleeping  eye, 
When  my  heart  in  dreams  elysian 
Meets  its  lost  one  in  yonder  sky  ? 

Vainly  I  ask,  my  brother  ; 

No  lip  can  tell ; 
The  imaged  form  of  another 

In  my  memory  still    must  dwell ; 
In  vain  with  impatient   fingers 

Thy  features  I  seek  to  trace, 
His  look  in  my  soul  still  lingers, 

And  in  thine  I  find  Julian's  face. 


[HEY  tell  me  Spring  is  coming 

With  her  wealth  of  buds  and  flowers, 
But  I  hear  no  wild  bees   humming 
Amid  the  leafy  bowers ; 


SONGS,  FROM  CONSTANCE  LA  TIMER.  267 

And  till  the  birds  are  winging 

With  music  from  each  tree, 
Till  the  insect  tribes  are  singing, 

Spring  is  not  spring  to  me. 

They  tell  me  spring  is  waking 

Glad  Nature  from  her  sleep, 
That  streams,  their  ice-chains  breaking, 

Once  more  to  sunshine  leap  ; 
But  the  mountain  brook  rejoices 

In  music  through  the  lea  — 
Till  I  hear  Earth's  many  voices, 

Spring  is  not  spring  to  me. 


ARTH  speaks  in  many  voices  ;  from    the  roar 
Of  the  wild  cataract  whose  ceaseless  din 


Shakes  the  far  forest  and  resounding  shore, 
To  the  meek  rivulet  which  seems  to  win 
Its  modest  way  amid  spring's  pleasant  bowers, 
Singing  its  quiet  song  to  charm  earth's  painted  flowers. 

Earth  speaks  in  many  voices  ;  from  the  song 

Of  the  free  bird  which  soars  to  heaven's  high  porch, 

As  if  on  joy's  full  tide  it  swept  along, 

To  the  low  hum  that  wakens  when  the  torch 

Summons  the  insect  myriads  of  the  night 

To  sport  their  little  hour  and  perish  in  its  light. 

Earth  speaks  in  many  voices  ;  music  breathes 
In  the  sweet  murmur  of  the  summer  breeze 


268  POEMS. 

That  plays  amid  the  honeysuckle's  wreaths, 

Or  swells  its  diapason  'mid  the  trees, 
When  eve's  cold  shadow  steals  o'er  lawn  and  lea, 
And  day's  glad  sounds  give  place  to  holier   minstrelsy. 

Earth  speaks  in  many  voices  ;    and  to  me 
Her  every  tone  with  melody  is  fraught ; 

Her  harmony  of  tints  I  may  not  see, 

But  every  breath  awakes  some  pleasant  thought ; 

While  to  mine  ear  such  blissful  sounds  are  given, 

My  spirit  dwells  in  light,  and  dreams  of  yonder  heaven, 


ADY,  they  tell  me  thou  art  fair, 

They  say  the  rose  blooms  on  thy  cheek. 
s=P    The  rose's  blush  I  have  forgot, 
Its  breath  alone  to  me  can  speak. 

Lady,  they  say  thine  eye's  soft  blue 
With  heaven's  own  tint  is  flashing  bright. 

Alas !  I  have  forgot  that  hue, 

My  sky  is  always  clothed  in  night. 

Lady,  they  tell  me  thou  art  good, 

Thy  heart  in  virtue's  cause  beats  high. 

I  know  this  tale,  at  least,  is  true, 
Mine  ear  assists  my  darkened  eye. 

Little  I  know  of  beauty's  form, 

The  dimpled  mouth,  the  snowy  skin, 


SOA'GS,    FROM  CONSTANCE   LA  TIMER.  269 

But  I  can  learn,  from  step  and  voice, 
If  gentle  be  the  heart  within. 

I  know  thou'rt  one  whom  all  may  love, 
Though  thy  fair  brow  I  ne'er   may  see, 

And  can  I  doubt  thou  wilt  allow 
The  blind  girl's  claim  to  sympathy  ? 


[IKE  the  wind-harp  whose  melody  slumbers, 

Unwakened  by  mortal  hand, 
Till  the  soft  breeze  calls  forth  its  sweet  numbers, 
Like  tones  from  a  seraph's  land  ; 
So  my  lips  ever  echo  the  feelings 

Which  nature  alone  may  impart ; 
I  know  naught  of  passion's  revealings, 
Then  wake  not  my  slumbering  heart. 

Like  a  lake  lying  far  on  the  mountain, 

Where  foot  of  man  scales  not  its  height, 
Fed  only  by  heaven's  pure  fountain, 

And  only  reflecting  heaven's  light ; 
So  my  soul's  quiet  depths  give  back  only 

The  feelings  where  childhood  has  part ; 
Blessed  with  friendships  my  life  is  not  lonely, 

Then  wake  not  my  slumbering  heart. 


THE   POETIC   IMPULSE. 

WAY,  vain  yearnings,  for  a  wild  ideal ! 

Why  tempt  ye  me  like  visions  from  above  ? 
Why  throng  round  one  who  dwells  amid  things 

real, 
Who  quaffs  the  cup  of  earthly  grief  and  love  ? 

Away,  away,  and  leave  me  still  to  follow 
The  varied  path  God  gives  me  to  pursue, 

The  joys  of  fancy  are  but  false  and  hollow, 
They  shall  not  win  me  to  forget  the  true. 

Away,  nor  tempt  me  with  thy  bright  revealings 

Of  Poesy's  sweet  fairy-land  of  dreams ; 
Better  for  me  to  nurse  the  gentler  feelings 

Which  light  my  home  with  calm  contentment's  beams. 

Away,  away,  ye  make  my  footsteps  falter, 

When  o'er  my  lowly  way  your  fair  forms  come ; 

To  her  who  serves  at  the  Penates'  altar, 
The  Delphic  oracles  must  still  be  dumb. 


PRAGMENT.  271 


FRAGMENT. 
» 

"  The  joy  untasted." 

Byron. 

:  YE,  it  is  ever  thus  :  in  every  heart 

Some  thirst  unslaked   has    been    a   life-long 

pang, 
Some  deep  desire  in  every  soul  has  part, 

Some  want  has  pierced  us  all  with  serpent  fang  ; 
For  who  from  such  a  brimming  cup  has  quaffed 
That  not  one  drop  was  wanting  to  life's  draught  ? 

It  comes  to  us  in  youth — that  pining  thirst, 

And  then  we  seek  to  quench  it  at  Love's  spring, 

Cheating  the  soul  with  fancies  that  at  first 
Seem  bright  and  glorious  as  an  angel's  wing, 

Till  time  and  change  o'ershadow  them,  and  leave 

The  heart  in  deeper  loneliness  to  grieve. 

'Tis  with  us  in  our  later  life ;    in  vain 

We  win  the  sweetest  draughts  of  wealth  and  fame  ; 
Still  in  the  bosom  dwells  the  unquiet  pain, 

Still  burns  unquenched,  unquenchable  the  flame  ; 
The  joy  is  still  untasted,  and  we  wear 
Our  lives  away  in  hope  which  brings   despair. 

And  various  as  the  bosoms  where  it   dwells 
Is  this  vain  yearning  for  some  untried  bliss  ; 


272  POEMS. 

We  little  know  the  secret  pang  that  swells 

The  masker's  bosom  in  a  world  like  this, 
For  vainly  in  our  fellow-man's  calm  face 
We  seek  the  yearnings  of  the  soul  to  trace. 


SONNETS  TO  THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 

jEAUTY,  transcendent  beauty,  such  as  fills 
The    passion-stricken    heart    with    dreams    of 
heaven, 

Genius  to  whom  such  magic  power  is  given 
That  its  least  word  our  inmost  spirit  thrills  ; 
These,  lady,  are  thy  gifts,  and  life  for  thee 

Should  have  sped  onward  like  a  summer's  day, 

Each  moment  gilded  by  affection's  ray, 
Till  pleasure's  light  was  quenched  in  death's  calm  sea  ; 
This  should  have  been  thy  fate,  fair  child  of  song, 

Were  happiness  the  meed  of  high  deserving. 
Alas  !  what  skill  may  paint  the  griefs  that  throng 

Around  thy  soul,  its  lofty  powers  unnerving  ? 
Lonely,  bereaved,  and  wronged,  yet  thou  dost  borrow 
A  crowning  grace  from  woe  —  the  majesty  of  sorrow. 


'HERE  was  old  England's  chivalry,  when   thou, 
Peerless  in  beauty  and  in  genius,  felt 
The  unvenomed  shaft  of  calumny  ?  where  dwelt 
The  spirit  that  of  old  inspired  the  vow 


SPIRITUAL  BEAUTY.  273 

To  guard  the  right,  and  battle  for  the  weak, 

When  thou  didst  bow  thy  glorious  head  in  shame, 
As  the  dark  mildew  fell  on  thy  fair  fame, 
And  Slander  hinted  what  she  dared  not  speak? 
Where  were  the  hearts  that  should  have  wakened  then, 
When  thou  wast  struck  down  from  thy  pride  of  place, 
Thou  bird  of  song  and  beauty  ?     That  bright  face 
In  ruder  times  had  called  forth  noble  men 
To  champion  thy  distress  :  such  times  are  o'er, 
And  selfish  interest  rules  where  honor  reigned  before. 


SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY. 

HERE  is  a  form  that  visits  me  in  dreams  — 
A  form  of  delicate  and  maiden  grace  ; 
And  o'er  my  slumbers  bends  a  gentle   face, 
Where  the  soul's  speaking  brightness  ever  beams : 
'Tis  not  a  face  of  beauty,  yet  sweet  gleams 

Of  pure  and  holy  thought  are  in  her  eyes, 
And  her  lip  wears  a  smile  that  ever  seems 
To  light  the  circling  air  like  sunset  skies. 
Alas  !  'tis  but  in  dreams  she  comes  ;  no  more 

That  gentle  friend  shall  bless  my  waking  sight, 
Until  life's  changeful  April  day  is  o'er, 

And  mine  eyes  close  in  death's  untroubled  night : 
Then  may  I  hope  my  lost  one's  face  to  see, 
And  share  in  happier  worlds  her  immortality. 
18 


274     -  POEMS. 

STANZAS 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

^OULD  friends  have  stayed  the  dart  of  death, 

Thou  hadst  not  sure  have  died ; 
Could  love  recall  life's  fleeting  breath, 
Thou  still  wert  at  our  side  ; 
But  thou  wert  hurried  to  the  tomb 
In  all  the  flush  of  beauty's   bloom, 

In  all  thy  youthful  pride  ; 
Affection,  powerless  to  save, 
Could  only  weep  above  thy  grave. 

'Twas  not  the  touch  of  slow  disease, 

Sapping  life's  hidden  springs, 
Weaning  the  soul,  by  slow  degrees, 

From  all  to  which  it  clings  ; 
'Twas  not  a  summons  long  delayed, 
And  still  reluctantly  obeyed, 

Called  thee  from  earthly  things  : 
A  few  brief  days  alone  were  given 
To  win  thy  thoughts  from  earth  to  heaven. 

The  world  for  thee  was  glad  and  bright, 

Thy  path  was  strewn  with  flowers, 
And  Pleasure  shed  her  rosiest  light 

Upon  youth's  smiling   bowers  ; 
Yet  no  base  fear  was  in  thy  heart 
When  called  from  all  most   loved  to  part, 

E'en  in  life's  morning  hours  ; 


TO  .  275 

For  in  thy  soul  was  Heaven's  own  grace, 
And  angel  brightness  on  thy  face. 

Fame  slants  no  laurel  o'er  the  tomb 

Where  thou  dost  calmly  sleep, 
But  gentle  memories   round  it  bloom, 

And  love  there  bends  to  weep  : 
Thou  wert  of  those  the  world  knows   not  ; 
Thou  art  of  those,  the  unforgot, 

Who  in  our  hearts  we  keep  ; 
A  mother's  love  —  O  !  more  than  fame  — 
A  mother's  tears  embalm  thy  name. 


TO 


STRAIN  of  the  heart's  music  !  yet  one  more, 
Though  it  be  low  and  broken  in  its  tone, 
And  blended  with  the  old  year's  dying  moan, 

For  thee,  beloved,  I  pour. 


A  strain  of  the  heart's  music,  full  of  love, 
Tender  and  grateful,  —  love  the  tried  and  true  ; 
Yet  mingled  with  a  touch  of  sadness  too, 
Like  voice  of  turtle-dove. 

For  past  is  now  life's  glad  and  joyous  spring, 
When  every  breeze  my  busy  pulses  stirred, 
And  my  heart  caroled  like  a  forest   bird, 
Rising  on  new-plumed  wing. 


276  POEMS. 

Now  through  life's  summer-time  we  journey  on, 
Bearing  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Finding,  at  every  footstep  of  the  way, 
Some  loved  companion  gone. 

Hope  weaves  no  more  her  wild  fantastic  measure, 
But  wraps  herself  in  Memory's  mantle  gray, 
And  chants  with  quiet  voice  Truth's  simple  lay 
Of  mingled  pain  and  pleasure. 

Yet  in  my  bosom  joy  cloth  still  abide, 

Aye,  joy  the  purest  earth  has  ever  proved  ; 
For  am  I  not  still  loving  and  beloved  ? 
Still,  dear  one,  at  thy  side  ? 

The  happiness  we  have  together  known, 
The  bitter  tears  we  have  together  shed, 
The  gentle  memories  of  our  blessed  dead, 
Cherished  by  us  alone,  — 

These  are  the  links  that  bind  our  wedded  hearts, 
These  are  the  thoughts  that  make  me  love  thee  more, 
As  years,   like  spent  waves,  die  upon  life's  shore, 
And  youth  departs. 


BALLAD. 


277 


COME  TO  ME,  LOVE. 

^OME  to  me,  love ;  forget  each  sordid  duty 

That  chains  thy  footsteps  to  the  crowded  mart  j 
Come,  look  with  me  upon  earth's  summer  beauty 
And  let  its  influence  cheer  thy  weary  heart : 
Come  to  me,  love  ! 

Come  to  me,  love ;  the  voice  of  song  is  swelling 
From  nature's  harp  in  every  varied  tone, 

And  many  a  voice  of  bird  and  bee  is  telling 
A  tale  of  joy  amid  the  forests  lone  : 

Come  to  me,  love  ! 

Come  to  me,  love  ;  my  heart  can  never  doubt  thee, 
Yet  for  thy  sweet  companionship  I  pine  ; 

O,  never  more  can  joy  be  joy  without  thee  ; 
My  pleasures,  even  as  my  life,  are  thine : 
Come  to  me,  love  ! 


BALLAD. 

f  was  a  lady  young  and  fair 

Who  sung  that  mournful  strain  ; 
Her  brow  wore  not  a  shade  of  care, 
Her  cheek  no  trace  of  pain  ; 


278  POEMS. 

Yet  sung  she,  e'en  as  one  who  knows 

How  youthful  hearts  are  torn, 
"  Love's  first  step  is  upon  the  rose, 
His  second  finds  the  thorn." 

Bright  jewels  bound  her  raven  hair, 

And  sparkled  on  her  hand, 
For  earth  held  nought  of  rich  or  rare 

Her  wealth  might  not  command ; 
Yet  mark  how  sad  the  music  flows 

From  lips  curved  half  in  scorn  : 
"  Love's  first  step  is  upon  the  rose, 

His  second  finds  the  thorn." 

No  brighter,  lovelier  face  appears 

In  pleasure's  crowded  mart ; 
That  proud  eye  was  not  made  for  tears, 

No  blight  should  touch  that  heart ; 
Yet,  as  she  sings,  some  memory  throws 

Its  shadow  o'er  life's  morn  : 
"  Love's  first  step  is  upon  the  rose, 

His  second  finds  the  thorn." 

Alas  !  it  is  a  weary  task 

To  trace  life's  hidden  cares ; 
Seek  not  to  raise  the  smiling  mask 

Which  maiden  pride  still  wears  ; 
A  quaint  old  rhyme  may  oft  disclose 

How  much  the  heart  has  borne : 
"  Love's  first  step  is  upon  the  rose, 

His  second  finds  the  thorn." 


STANZAS.  279 


STANZAS. 

•OURNFULLY  my  spirit  turns 

To  dreams  of  olden  time, 
And  oft  my  heart  within  me  burns 
When  I  hear  some  old-world  rhyme  ; 
And  ever  has  Poesy  been  to  me 
The  Atlantis  of  Time's  wide  sea  ; 
I  have  steered  full  often  my  weary  bark 
For  that  green  isle  on  the  waters  dark  ; 
But  never  my  foot  might  press  its  shore, 
And  I  turn  to  actual  life  once  more 
Mournfully,  O,  mournfully  ! 

Mournfully  doth  my  bosom  pine 

For  the  fantasies  of  youth  ; 
And  I  would  that  fancy  now  could  shine 

With  a  light  like  that  of  truth  ; 
I  would  lift  my  worldly  laden  thought 
To  the  realms  with  so  much  beauty  fraught, 
I  would  catch  again  the  glorious  gleam 
That  filled  my  soul  with  its  heavenly  beam 
Ere  my  earthly  hopes  and  earthly  fears 
Brought  my  feelings  back  to  this  vale  of  tears, 
Mournfully,  O,  mournfully ! 

Mournfully  do  my  tear-drops  fall 

On  the  poet's  pictured  page, 
And  fain  would  I  the  dreams  recall 

That  gladdened  life's  golden  age  j 


280  POEMS. 

But  I  bartered  those  treasures  long,  long  ago, 
For  happiness  such  as  few  can  know, 
Nor  would  I  recall  the  feverish  past, 
With  its  wild  unrest  and  its  pang  at  last ; 
Yet  the  voice  of  song  has  a  magic  still, 
And  its  gentle  tones  can  my  spirit  thrill, 
Mournfully,  O,  mournfully  ! 


THE  ENGLISH  RIVER. 

A     FANTASY. 

jT  floweth  on,  with  pleasant  sound, 

A  vague  and  dream-like  measure, 
And  singeth  to  the  flowers  around 
A  song  of  quiet  pleasure  ; 
No  rugged  cliff  obstructs  the  way 
Where  the  glad  waters  leap  and  play  ; 
Or,  if  a  tiny  rock  look  down 
In  the  calm  stream  with  mimic  frown, 
The  gentle  waves  new  music  make, 
As  at  its  base  they  flash  and  break. 
It  speedeth  on,  like  joy's  bright  hours, 
Traced  but  by  verdure  and  by  flowers  ; 
But  whether  sunbeams  on  it  rest, 
Or  storm-clouds  hover  o'er  its  breast, 
Still  in  that  green  and  shady  glen, 
Beside  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 
The  river  singeth  on. 


THE  ENGLISH  RIVER.  281 

It  floweth  on,  past  tree  and  flower, 

Until  the  stream  is  laving 
The  ruins  of  Strathallen's  tower, 

With  ivy  banners  waving. 
Methinks  the  river's  pleasant  chime 
Tells  me  a  tale  of  olden  time, 
When  mail-clad  knights  were  often  seen 
Upon  its  banks  of  living  green, 
And  gentle  dames  of  lineage  high, 
With  jeweled  brow  and  flashing  eye  ; 
While  many  a  squire,  whose  humble  name 
Was  yet  unheralded  by  fame, 
Here  wove  his  dreams  of  high  emprise, 
While  musical  as  lovers'  sighs, 
The  river  singeth  on. 

It  floweth  on,  this  gentle  stream, 

And   seems  to  tell  the  story 
Of  old-world  heroes,  and  their  dream 

Of  fame  and  martial  glory ; 
The  war-cry  on  its  banks  has  pealed, 
Blent  with  the  clang  of  lance  and  shield  ; 
Waked  to  new  life  by  war's  alarms, 
Bold  knights,  and  squires,  and  men-at-arms, 
Have  sallied  forth  in  proud  array 
With  hearts  impatient  for  the  fray ; 
While  the  clear  streamlet  still  gave  back 
The  glittering  sheen  that  marked  their  track. 
Though  nature's  voice  is  all  unheard 
When  pulses  are  thus  madly  stirred, 
The  river  singeth  on. 


282  POEMS. 

Yet  over  e'en  the  sunniest  fate 

Hangs  the  dark  cloud  of  sorrow, 
And  sadder  scenes  the   fancy  wait, 

Since  dreams  from  truth  we   borrow ; 
A  well  worn  path,  now  grass-o'ergrown, 
And  hid  by  many  a  fallen  stone, 
To  yonder  roofless  chapel  led, 
Where  sleep  Strathallen's  buried  dead  ; 
Full  often  that  pure  stream  has  glassed 
The  funeral  train  as  slow  it  passed : 
Hark  !  as  the  cowled  monks  repeat 
The  Requiescat  low  and  sweet, 
The  river  singeth  on. 

The  vision  fades,  the  phantoms  flee, 

And  nought  of  all  remaineth ; 
The  river  runneth  fast  and  free, 

The  wind  through  ruins  plaineth  ; 
The  feudal  lord  and  belted  knight, 
And  spurless  squire  and  lady  bright, 
Long  since  have  shared  the  common  lot, 
All,  save  their  haughty  name,  forgot; 
The  line  is  ended,  —  there  is  none 
To  prize  the  fame  his  fathers  won. 
The  ivy  wreathes  the  ruined  shrine, 
And  flaunts  beneath  the  glad  sunshine  ; 
The  fallen  buttress,  ruined  wall, 
And  crumbling  battlements  are  all 
That  still  are  left  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  those  who  ruled  o'er  that  fair  vale  ; 


THE  AMERICAN  RIVER.  283 

Nature  resumes  her  lonely  sway, 
And  flowers  and  music  mark  the  way 
The  river  singeth  on. 


THE   AMERICAN   RIVER. 

A    REMEMBRANCE. 

!  T  rusheth  on  in  fearful  might, 

That  river  of  the  west, 
Through  forest  dense,  where  seldom  light 
Of  sunbeam  gilds  its  breast ; 
Anon  it  dashes  wildly  past 
The  wide-spread  prairie,  lone  and  vast, 
Without  a  shadow  on  its  tide, 
Save  the  long  grass  that  skirts  its  side  ; 
Again  its  angry  currents  sweep 
Beneath  the  tall  and  rocky  steep 
Which  frowns  above  the  darkened  stream, 
Till  doubly  deep  its  waters  seem. 
No  rugged  cliff  may  check  its  way, 
No  gentle  mead  invite  its  stay  ; 
Still  with  resistless,  maddening  force, 
Following  its  wild  and  devious  course, 
The  river  rusheth  on. 

It  rusheth  on  ;   the  rocks  are  stirred, 

And  echoing  far  and  wide 
Through  the  dim  forest  aisles  is  heard 

The  thunder  of  its  tide  ; 


284  POEMS. 

No  other  sound  strikes  on  the  ear 
Save  when,  beside  its  waters  clear, 
Crashing  o'er  branches  dry  and  sere, 
Comes  bounding  forth  the  antlered   deer  ; 
Or  when,  perchance,  the  woods  give  back 
The  arrow  whizzing  on  its  track, 
Or  deadlier  rifle's  vengeful  crack. 
No  hum  of  city  life  is  near, 
And  still  uncurbed  in  its  career, 

The  river  rusheth  on.  . 

It  rusheth  on ;  no  fire-bark  leaves 

Its  dark  and  smoking  trail 
O'er  the  pure  wave,  which  only  heaves 

The  bateau  light  and  frail ; 
Long,  long  ago  the  rude  canoe 
Across  those  sparkling  waters  flew  ; 
Long,  long  ago  the  Indian  Brave 
In  that  clear  stream  his  brow  might  lave  ; 
But  seldom  has  the  white  man  stood 
Within  that  trackless  solitude. 
Yet  onward,  onward,  dashing  still, 
With  all  the  force  of  untamed  will, 
The  river  rusheth  on. 

It  rusheth  on  ;  no  changes  mark 
How  many  years  have  sped 

Since  to  its  banks,  through  forests  dark, 
Some  chance  the  hunter  led  ; 

Though  many  a  season  has  passed  o'er 

The  giant  trees  that  gird  its  shore, 


STANZAS.  285 

Though  the  soft  limestone  mass,  impressed 

By  naked  foootstep  on  its  breast, 

Now  hardened  into  rock  appears 

By  work  of  indurating  years, 

Yet  'tis  by  grander  strength  alone 

That  Nature's  age  is  ever  known. 

While  towers  decay  and  nations  fall, 

And  Thebes  shows  but  a  ruined  wall, 

Time  in  the  wilderness  displays 

Th'  ennobling  power  of  length  of  days. 

The  crumbling  buttress  tells  the  tale 

Of  man's  vain   pomp  and  projects  frail  ; 

But  in  the  forest's  trackless  bound, 

Type  of  Eternity,  is  found 

The  river  rushing  on. 


STANZAS. 

"  Clean  forgotten,  as  a  dead  man  out  of  mind." 


Psaltns. 


is  this,  then,  the  common  lot? 
The  end  of  earthly  love  and  trust  ? 
To  be  by  cherished  ones  forgot 
When  the  frail  body  sleeps  in  dust  ? 
Shall  hearts  which  now  with  love  run  o'er, 

Retain  for  us  no  deeper  trace 
Than  leaves  the  footprint  on  the  shore, 
Which  the  next  wavelet  may  efface  ? 


286  POEMS. 

Shall  those  who  only  seemed  to  live 

Within  the  sunshine  of  our  smile, 
To  whom  existence  could  not  give 

A  joy  unshared  by  us  the  while,  — 
Shall  they  'mid  other  joys  live  on, 

And  form  anew  affection's  tie, 
When  we  from  earth's  delights  are  gone, 

Forever  hid  from  human  eye  ? 

Aye  ;  thus  it  is  th'  eternal  laws 

That  rule  our  nature  are  obeyed. 
Not  in  mid  conflict  may  we  pause 

To  linger  long  where  love  is  laid  ; 
We  pile  the  sod  above  the  breast 

Which  pillowed  oft  our  aching  head, 
Then  turn,  and  leave  unto  its  rest 

Our  loved,  but  half-forgotten  dead. 

Tears,  the  heart's  desolating  rain, 

Awhile  upon  our  path  may  fall, 
But  hope's  sweet  sunbeam  smiles  again, 

And  grief  can  ne'er  the  past  recall ; 
Anon  the  dirge's  mournful  measure 

Is  changed  to  some  less  saddening  strain, 
And  soon  the  echoing  voice  of  pleasure 

Tells  grief  and  love  alike  were  vain. 

We  form  new  schemes  of  future  bliss, 
New  flowers  spring  up  to  cheer  our  way, 

And  scarcely  from  our  side  we  miss 
The  partners  of  life's  earlier  day ; 


SONNET  TO    W.    C.   BRYANT.  287 

Alas  !  how  vain  our  noblest  feelings, 

How  idle  would  affection  seem,  • 
Did  not  God  give  us  bright  revealings 

Of  life  where  love  is  not  a  dream  ! 


SONNET 

TO    WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT,    WRITTEN    IMMEDIATELY 
AFTER    THE    PERUSAL    OF    HIS    POEMS. 

:Y  thanks  are  thine,  most  gifted  one  ;  to  thee 
I  owe  an  hour  of  intellectual  life, 
A  sweet  hour,  rescued  from  the  noise,  and  strife, 
And  turmoil  of  the  world,  which  but  to  see 
Or  hear  of,  from  afar,  is  pain  to  me. 

I  thank  thee  for  the  rich  draught  thou  hast  brought 
To  lips  that  love  the  well-springs  of  pure  thought, 
Which  from  thy  soul  gush  up  so  plenteously. 
The  hymnings  of  thy  prophet  voice  awake 
Those  nobler  impulses  that,  hushed  and  still, 
Lie  hidden  in  our  breast,  till  some  wild  thrill 
Of  spirit-life  has  power  their  chains  to  break ; 
Then  from  our  long  inglorious  dream  we  start, 
As  if  an  angel's  tone  had  stirred  the  slumbering  heart. 


288  POEMS. 


A  LITANY. 

>HEN  the  sun  of  joy  shines  brightest, 
And  our  steps  on  earth  are  lightest  ; 
When  to  songs  of  quiet  pleasure 

Every  pulse  keeps  joyful  measure  ; 

When  no  storm-cloud  hovers  o'er  us, 

And  no  darkness  lies  before  us  — 

Then  from  dangers  lurking  nigh, 

All  unmarked  by  human  eye  ; 

From  the  serpent  in  life's  bowers, 

Coiled  beneath  the  fairest  flowers  ; 

From  the  evil  thoughts  that  hide 

Even  most  where  joys  abide,  — 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

When  a  rugged  path  we  tread, 
And  the  heart  grows  faint  with  dread  ; 
When  o'er  waters  wild  and  dark 
Drifts  our  lone  and  helmless  bark, 
While  the  stars  wax  dim  and  pale, 
And  our  hopes  of  succor  fail  ; 
When  to  heaven  we  lift  our  eyes, 
As  the  waves  around  us  rise, 
Feeling  that  our  God  is  there,  — 
O  !  in  answer  to  our  prayer, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

When  the  hour  of  death  draws  near, 
And  the  soul  is  filled  with  fear  ; 


A   LITANY.  289 

When,  with  lingering  step  and  slow, 
Onward  to  the  grave  we  go, 
Turning  from  a  world  of  light 
T'ward  the  realms  of  endless  night,  — 
Then  from  demons  that  assail  us 
When  the  powers  of  nature  fail  us ; 
From  the  evil  shapes  that  seem 
Fancies  of  a  sick  man's  dream, 
Yet  which  come,  with  fearful  power, 
Tempting  us  in  life's  last  hour,  — 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 

When  the  awful  trump  shall  sound, 
Startling  the  world's  remotest  bound  ; 
W7hen  earth's  charnel-house  shall  pour 
Its  myriads  forth  to  life  once  more  ; 
When,  shrinking,  trembling,  fearful,  all 
Before  thy  glorious  footstool  fall,  — 
From  the  judgments  that  await 
The  spirit  unregenerate  ; 
From  the  sinner's  guilty  shame, 
The  gnawing  worm,  the  quenchless  flame,  — 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

19 


290  POEMS. 


POESY. 

|  AST  thou  ne'er  marked  a  fount,  from  earth  up- 
springing, 

Within  the  shelter  of  some  greenwood  glade, 
Scarce  seen  by  human  eye,  yet  gladly  flinging 
Its  wealth  of  freshness  in  that  sylvan  shade  ? 

The  very  herbage  that  its  waters  nourish 
Serves  to  conceal  it  from  the  passer-by  ; 

Only  the  flow'rets  on  its  brink  that  flourish 
Reveal  its  windings  to  the  thoughtless  eye. 

O,  thus  be  Poesy  within  my  bosom,  — 
A  bubbling  fountain  ever  pure  and  bright, 

Known  only  by  the  charities  that  blossom 
Beneath  its  influence  into  life  and  light  ! 

Within  my  heart,  unchecked,  that  sweet  stream  gushes, 
As  fresh  and  pure  as  in  my  girlhood's  day  ; 

No  beam  from  glory's  sun  its  surface  flushes, 
Love  only  marks  its  solitary  way. 

What  though  its  early  fullness  has  been  wasted 
On  many  a  wayside  herb  and  lowly  flower  ? 

It  floweth  on,  and  one  beloved  hath  tasted 
Its  cooling  wave  in  many  a  weary  hour. 


DISTRUST.  291 


Full  well  I  know  that  silently  it  wendeth 
In  seeming  idlesse  to  Oblivion's  sea, 

And  yet  to  daily  life  its  presence  lendeth 
A  beauty  and  a  bliss  enough  for  me. 


DISTRUST. 

'OO  late!  too  late!  in  days  of  yore, 

'^y   v°ice    nas    thrilled    through    heart    and 

,   brain, 
For  then  I  knelt  as  never  more 

I  kneel  at  woman's  shrine  again  • 
Then  hadst  thou  breathed  one  tender  sigh, 

I  had  lain  humbled  at  thy  feet, 
E'en  though,  like  Brahma's  votary,  I 
Could  only  hope  my  death  to  meet. 

But  I  have  borne  the  weight  of  ill, 

Have  suffered  all  a  lover's  fate, 
Until  my  heart,  benumbed  and  chill, 

Can  only  feel  thou  comest  too  late ; 
The  joys  that  blessed  our  early  youth, 

The  hopes  that  o'er  my  pathway  shone, 
Love's  perfect  trustfulness  and  truth, 

Its  sweet  unselfishness,  are  gone. 

Within  my  bosom's  secret  cell 
Love,  lonely  hermit,  still  abides, 


29  2  POEMS. 

But  ah !  'neath  Memory's  cowl  too  well 
His  roseate  wreath  of  joy  he  hides ; 

Aye,  Love  is  there,  but  pale   and  worn 
His  weary  vigil  still  he  keeps 

Besides  the  voiceless  burial  urn, 
Where  happiness  forever  sleeps. 

No  more  I  breathe  the  anguished   prayer, 

No  more  I  make  the  yearning  cry  ; 
The  haunting  demons  of  despair 

Now  couched  in  sullen  silence  lie  ; 
Distrust  has  come  our  hearts  between, 

A  sense  of  wrong  in  both  has  dwelt ; 
We  cannot  be  what  we  have  been, 

We  cannot  feel  as  we  have  felt. 


SLIGHTED   LOVE. 

HE  struggle  is  over  ; 

Such  strife  could  not  last ; 
And  pride  now  must  cover 
All  trace  of  the  past ; 
My  heart  has  grown  stronger, 

Nor  shrinks  from  its  task,  — 
Go,  cold  one,  no  longer 
One  kind  thought  I  ask. 

Thou  hast  taught  me  the  weakness 
Of  woman's  fond  trust, 


STANZAS.  293 


When  in  love's  lowly  meekness 

I  knelt  in  the  dust ; 
And  now  my  brow  flushes 

With  anger  and  shame, 
As  my  proud  spirit  crushes 

Its  once  cherished  flame. 

Our  love-dream  is  vanished, 

And  coldly  I  speak 
The  words  that  once  banished 

The  blood  from  my  cheek. 
Other  idols  have  wooed  thee, 

All  changed  is  thy  lot, 
For  Fame  has  pursued  thee, 

And  Love  is  forgot. 


STANZAS. 

"  I  die  if  neglected." 

TELL  me  not  of  lofty  fate, 

Of  glory's  deathless  name  ; 
The  bosom  love  leaves  desolate 
Has  nought  to  do  with  fame. 

Vainly  philosophy  would  soar  ; 

Love's  height  it  may  not  reach  ; 
The  heart  soon  learns  a  sweeter  lore 

Than  ever  sage  could  teach. 


POEMS. 

The  cup  may  bear  a  poisoned  draught, 

The  altar  may  be  cold ; 
But  yet  the  chalice  will  be  quaffed, 

The  shrine  sought  as  of  old. 

Man's  sterner  nature   turns  away 

To  seek  ambition's  goal ; 
Wealth's  glittering  gifts  and  pleasure's    ray 

May  charm  his  weary  soul  ; 

But  woman  knows  one  only  dream  — 

That  broken,  all  is  o'er ; 
For  on  life's  dark  and  sluggish  stream 

Hope's  sunbeam  rests  no  more. 


LINES   TO    A    FRIEND. 

IKE  that  sweet  melody  which  faintly  lingers 

Upon  the  wind-harp's  strings  at  close  of  day, 
When,  gently  touched  by  Evening's  dewy  fingers, 
It  breathes  a  low  and  melancholy  lay,  — 

So  thy  calm  voice  of  sympathy  meseemeth, 
And,  while  its  magic  spell  is  round  me  cast, 

My  spirit  in  its  cloistered  silence  dreameth, 
And  vaguely  blends  the  future  with  the  past. 

But  vain  such  dreams  while  pain  my  bosom   thrilleth 
And  mournful  memories  around  me  move, 


SO  AWE  T.  295 

E'en  friendship's  alchemy  no  balm  distilleth 
To  soothe  the  immedicable  wound  of  love. 

O,  well  thou  knowest  this  truth,  for  thou  hast  tasted 
The  draught  which  leaves  such  bitterness  behind  ; 

Thou  e'en  in  life's  glad  spring  hast  idly  wasted 
Feeling's   sweet  perfume  on  the  unconscious  wind. 

Alas  !  alas  !  passion  too  soon  exhaleth 

The  dewy  freshness  of  the  heart's  young  flowers  ; 
We   water  them  with  tears  —  but  nought  availeth, 

They  wither  on  through  all  life's  later  hours. 


SONNET. 

,O  more,  —  no  more,  my  heart !  give  out  no  more 
Thy  solemn  music  to  the  inconstant  wind, 
Suffer  not  every  careless  hand  to  find 
Thy  hidden  stops  of  harmony,  nor  pour, 
As  thou  wert  wont  to  do  in  days  of  yore, 

Thy  sweetest  tones  on  ears  that  yield  no  heed  : 
O,  be  not  thou  like  the  responsive  reed, 
That,  ever  as  the  light  air  wandereth  o'er, 

Utters  its  wild  and  broken  melody  ; 
For  I  would  have  thee  like  the  ocean  shell, 

Breathing  a  monotone  of  that  deep  sea 
Whose  moaning  waves  within  my  breast  must  swell, 

Marking  with  ebb  and  flow  my  destiny, 
Until  death's  icy  touch  the  restless  surge  shall  quell. 


296  POEMS. 


THE    INCONSTANT. 

PLEDGE  to  thy  lady ;  aye,  fill  high  the  bowl 
To    the    Cynthia    that    rules    o'er   the    tides  of 

thy  soul,  — 

To  her  whose  light  hand  wanders  over  thy  heart, 
Bringing  out  the  rich  music  its  chords  can  impart ; 
Aye,  drink  to  her  now,  lest  a  new  love  awake, 
Ere    thy  lip  meets   the  wine    bead    that    swells    but  to 
break. 

Pledge  to  thy  lady,   but  breathe  not  her  name  ; 
That  draught  quenched  already  a  fast-waning  flame  ; 
Ere  next  at  the  banquet  thou  pourest  the  red  wine, 
Thy  love  will  be  pilgrim  at  some  newer  shrine  ; 
Another  will  weave  thee  a  fresher  rose-chain, 
To  be  worn  a  brief  moment,  then  flung  off  again. 


A   CHARACTER. 

DO  not  call  him  false,  nor  say 

That,  like  an  Eastern  khan,  his   heart 
Admits  new  guests  each  coming  day, 
And  careless  sees  the  old  depart. 

'Tis  rather  like  some  idol  fane, 

WThere  crowds  of  pilgrims  pass  the  gate, 

And  kneel  in  homage  brief  as  vain, 
While  but  one  priestess  there  may  wait. 


RECKLESS  MIRTH.  297 


RECKLESS    MIRTH. 

,  give  me  wine,  and  let  me  quaff 
To  the  light-winged  loves  around  me  ; 
Fill  high  the  bowl,  and  we  will  laugh 
At  the  rose-chains  that  once  bound  me  ; 
Call  in  the  guests,  and  I  will  smile, 
With  a  brow  as  free  from  sorrow 
As  if  my  heart  was  glad  the  while, 
And  looked  for  as  glad  a  morrow. 

Aye,  give  me  wine  :  to  me  'tis  fraught 

With  a  spell  of  daily  gladness, 
For  it  drowns  the  voice  of  that  lonely  thought 

Whose  whispers  are  full  of  sadness. 
Then  serve  the  feast,  and  we  well  drink 

To  the  present's  fleeting  pleasures  ; 
Let  me  drain  the  cup,  for  I  would  not  think 

Of  the  past  with  its  buried  treasures. 

Aye,  give  me  wine  :    I'll  cull  to-night, 

From  the  wreath  by  passion  braided, 
Some  blossoms  rainbow-hued  and   bright, 

Some  leaflets  still  unfaded  ; 
For  while  young  beauty's  beaming  eye 

On  my  blighted  brow  reposes, 
I'll  pledge  the  love  that  awakes  no  sigh, 

And  gather  life's  thornless  roses. 


298  POEMS. 


I  WILL  NOT  LOVE  THEE. 

WILL  not  love  thee  ;  I  have  ever  cast 

Too  many  passion-flowers  on  life's  dark  tide, 
Then,  like  a  truant  school-boy,  idly  passed 
My  vacant  hours  to  watch  them  onward  glide. 

I  will  not  love  thee  ;  why  should  I  reope 

My  bosom's  secret  treasury  for  thee, 
And  cull  its  richest  gems,  without  one  hope 

To  see  them  shine  amid  thy  blazonry  ? 

I  will  not  love  thee ;  thou  shalt  never  find 
My  hopes  to  thee,  like  incense,  offered  up  ; 

I  will  not  fling  sweet  odors  to  the  wind, 
Or  melt  another  pearl  in  passion's  cup. 

I  will  not  love  thee  ;  though  I  know  thee  all 
That  women  envy  and  that  men  adore, 

Though  on  my  brow  thy  smiles  like  sunbeams  fall, 
My  heart  must  worship,  but  must  love  no  more. 


INQUIETUDE. 

BETHOUGHT  the  icy  hand  of  Time  had  chilled 

The  gushing  fount  of  passion  in  my  breast ; 
Methought   that    reason's    power,   for   aye,  had 

stilled 
The  bitter  struggles  of  my  heart's  unrest. 


A    GENTLE  HERITAGE  IS  MIXE.  299 

Cold,  calm,  and  self-possessing,  I  had  deemed 

In  quiet  now  to  view  life  slip  away, 
Forgetting  much  that  once  my  soul  had  dreamed, 

And  lengthening  out  in  peace  my  little  day. 

Safe  in  indifference,  I  had  vainly  hoped 
To  scorn  the  sympathy  I  might  not  share, 

And  little  thought  mine  own  hand  would  have  oped 
My  bosom's  portal  to  returning  care. 

How  burns  the  blush  of  shame  upon  my  cheek, 
How  bends  to  earth  in  grief  my  haughty  brow, 

When  thus  I  find  myself  disarmed  and  weak 
Before  the  ideal  shapes  that  haunt  me  now ! 

O  God !  how  long,  misled  by  erring  thought, 
Shall  I  grope  darkly  on  in  feeling's  maze  ? 

When  shall  I  be  by  Time's  sad  lessons  taught, 
And  reach  my  home  of  rest  by  quiet  ways  ? 


A  GENTLE  HERITAGE  IS  MIXE. 

GENTLE  heritage  is  mine, 
A  life  of  quiet  pleasure ; 
My  heaviest  cares  are  but  to  twine 
Fresh  votive  garlands  for  the  shrine 
Where  bides  my  bosom's  treasure. 
I  am  not  merry,  nor  yet  sad  ; 
My  thoughts  are  more  serene  than  glad. 


300  POEMS. 

I  have  outlived  youth's  feverish  mirth 

And  all  its  causeless  sorrow  ; 
My  joys  are  now  of  nobler  worth, 
My  sorrows,  too,  have  holier  birth, 

And  heavenly  solace  borrow  ; 
So,  from  my  green  and  shady  nook, 
Back  on  my  by-past  life  I  look. 

The  Past  has  memories  sad  and  sweet, 

Memories  still  fondly  cherished, 
Of  joys  that  blossomed  at  my  feet, 
Whose  odors  still  my  senses  greet, 

E'en  though  the  flowers  have  perished  ; 
Visions  of  friends  long  past  away, 
Whose  love  once  blest  life's  earlier  day. 

The  Future,  Isis-like,  sits  veiled, 

And  none  her  mystery  learneth ; 
It  may  be  that  her  cheek  is  paled 
\Vith  sorrows  yet  to  be  bewailed ; 

Perhaps  before  her  burneth 
A  lurid  fire  that  must  destroy 
My  every  bud  of  hope  and  joy. 

I  would  not  lift  the  veil  that  hides 
Life's  coming  joy  or  sorrow  ; 

If  sweet  content  with  me  abides 

W'hile  onward  still  the  Present  glides, 
I  think  not  of  the  morrow ; 

It  may  bring  griefs  ;  enough  for  me 

The  quiet  joy  I  feel  and  see. 


SONG.  301 


SOXG. 

JOVE  her?     No!  for  passion  blendeth 
Ever  with  the  heart's  young  dream  ; 
And  earth's  evil  shadow  lendeth 
Darkness  to  life's  purest  beam ; 
Still  with  jealous  hopes  and  fears 
Love  has  marked  his  weary  lot, 
Tracing  every  step  by  tears ; 
Then  be  sure  I  love  her  not. 

Love  her  ?     No  !  such  fire  ne'er  burneth 

Save  when  sighing  fans  the  flame  ; 
While  the  bosom  wildly  yearneth, 

Nursing  hopes  it  dares  not  name  ; 
Since  desires  the  soul  may  stir, 

Vague  and  vain,  yet  unforgot, 
I  would  guard  sweet  thoughts  of  her, 

But  be  sure  to  love  her  not. 

Love  her  ?     No  !  my  heart  inurneth 

Ashes  she  can  ne'er  illume  ; 
And  the  lamp  that  in  me  burneth 

Shines,  a  lamp  within  a  tomb ; 
On  my  brow  the  seal  is  set, 

Sorrow  never  sets  in  vain  • 
Time  may  teach  me  to  forget, 

But  I  cannot  love  again. 

Love  her  ?     No  !  pure,  deep  devotion 
Such  as  angel  hearts  might  prize, 


302  POEMS. 

Stills  my  bosom's  wild  emotion 
When  I  meet  her  earnest  eyes ; 

Like  a  high  and  holy  star 
Cheereth  she  my  lonely  lot ; 

I  may  worship  from  afar, 
But  be  sure  I  love  her  not. 


SONG. 

HAVE  won    thee  to  love   me,  all  cold  as  thou 
art; 

I  have  won  thee  to  love  me,  untamable  heart ! 
For  this  every  joy  of  my  life  has  been  given, 
For  this  I  have  risked  every  promise  of  heaven  ; 
I  have  won  thee  to  love  me,  —  I  hold  thee  in  thrall, 
And  the  sight  of  thy  bondage  repays  me  for  all. 

I  have  won  thee  to  love  me,  untamable  heart! 
I  have  won  thee  to  love  me,  and  now  let  us  part ; 
Thou  mayst  throw  off  my  fetters  with  haughty  disdain, 
But  the  scar  and  the  aching  must  ever  remain  ; 
My  toils  may  seem  frail  as  the  wood-spider's  net, 
But  Love's  spell  is  upon  thee,  —  thou  canst  not  forget. 


XEVER  FORGET.  303 

NEVER  FORGET. 

EVER  forget  the  hour  of  our  first  meeting, 
^     When  'mid  the  sounds  of  revelry  and  song 

Only  thy  soul  could  know  that  mine  was  greeting 
Its  idol,  wished  for,  waited  for  so  long; 
Never  forget. 

Never  forget  the  joy  of  that  revealment, 

Centring  an  age  of  bliss  in  one  sweet  hour, 

When  love  broke  forth  from  friendship's  frail  concealment 
And  stood  confessed  to  us  in  godlike  power  ; 
Never  forget. 

Never  forget  my  heart's  intense  devotion, 

Its  wealth  of  freshness  at  thy  feet  flung  free, 

Its  golden  hopes  whelmed  in  that  boundless  ocean 
Which  merged  all  wishes,  all  desires,  save  thee  ; 
Never  forget. 

Never  forget  the  moment  when  we  parted, 

When  from  love's  summer-cloud   the  bolt  was  hurled 

That  drove  us,  scathed  in  soul  and  broken-hearted, 
Alone  to  wander  through  this  desert  world ; 
Never  forget. 


304  POEMS. 


THE  AEOLIAN  HARP. 

|ARP  of  the  Winds!  how  vainly  art  thou  swelling 

Thy  diapason  on  the  heedless  blast ! 
How  idly,  too,  thy  gentler  chords  are  telling 
A  tale  of  sorrow  as  the  breeze  sweeps  past ! 
Why  dost  thou  waste  on  loneliness  the  strain 
Which  were  not  heard  by  human  ears  in  vain  ? 

And  the  harp  answered  :  "  Though  the  winds  are  bearing 
My  soul  of  sweetness  on  their  viewless  wings, 

Yet  one  faint  tone  may  reach  some  soul  despairing, 
And  rouse  its  energies  to  happier  things ; 

O !  not  in  vain  my  song,  if  it  but  gives 

One  moment's  joy  to  anything  that  lives." 

O  heart  of  mine  !  canst  thou  not  here,  discerning 
An  emblem  of  thyself,  some  solace  find  ? 

Though  earth  may  never  quench  thy  life-long  yearning, 
Yet  give  thyself,  like  music,  to  the  wind ; 

Thy  wandering  thoughts  may  teach  thy  love  and  trust, 

And  waken  sympathy  when  thou  art  dust. 


'SOMETHING  BEYOND:'1  305 


"  SOMETHING  BEYOND." 

EART  !    weary  heart !   what  means  thy  wild  un 
rest? 

Hast  thou  not  tasted  of  life's  every  pleasure  ? 
With  all  that  mortals  seek,  thy  lot  is  blest, 
Yet  dost  thou  ever  chant  in  solemn  measure, 
"  Something  beyond  !  " 

Heart !  weary  heart !  canst  thou  not  find  repose 
In  the  sweet  calm  of  friendship's  pure  devotion  ? 

Amid  the  peace  which  sympathy  bestows, 

Still  dost  thou  murmur  with  repressed  emotion, 
"  Something  beyond  !  " 

Heart !  weary  heart !  too  idly  hast  thou  poured 
Thy  music  and  thy  perfume  on  the  blast ; 

Now  beggared  in  affection's  treasured  hoard, 
Thy  cry  is  still,  —  thy  saddest  and  thy  last,  — 
"  Something  beyond  !  " 

Heart !  weary  heart !  O  cease  thy  wild  unrest ; 

Earth  cannot  satisfy  thy  bitter  yearning  ; 
But  onward,  upward  speed  thy  lonely  quest, 

And   hope   to   find,    where    heaven's    pure    stars   are 
burning, 

"  Something  beyond  !  " 


306  POEMS. 


THE   MOURNER'S    APPEAL. 

LOWERS,  happy  flowers  !  methinks  your  tender 

eyes 

Look  kindly  on  me  in  my  deep  distress; 
Dwells  there  no  healing  virtue  in  your  sighs? 
Have  ye  no  balm  the  weary  heart  to  bless? 
Can  ye  not  give  from  out  your  glowing  hearts 

A  freshness  like  the  joy  of  childhood's  hours? 
Or  must  I  sadly  feel,  as  youth  departs, 

Life's  dial  only  once  is  wreathed  with  flowers? 

Stars,  holy  stars  !  pure  watchers  of  the  night ! 

Is  there  no  beam  that  points  the  way  to  hope? 
Amid  a  world  of  so  much  gladsome  light, 

Must  I  forever  in  thick  darkness  grope? 
O  chase  this  vague,  wild  horror  from  my  thought; 

Let  me  but  feel  Heaven  pities  my  deep  woe  ; 
My  future  years  are  with  such  anguish  fraught, 

I  would  look  upward,  —  peace  dwells  not  below. 

Since  first  my  soul  took  cognizance  of  life, 

I've  looked  on  Nature  with  a  lover's  eye  ; 
Amid  the  world's  vain  toil  and  bitter  strife, 

I  still  have  felt  her  gentle  influence  nigh:  % 

Yet  now  when  in  my  agony  I  come, 

Fleeing  to  her  in  refuge  from  despair, 
Her  shrine  is  cold,  her  oracles  are  dumb, 

No  sympathy  nor  solace  wait  me  there. 


SOWET.  307 

'Tis  that  mine  eyes  are  dimmed  with  frequent  tears, 

Else  would  I  see  a  balm  in  every  flower, 
And  find  a  light  to  chase  my  gloomy  fears 

In  every  star  that  gems  the  evening  hour; 
'Tis  that  my  soul  is  dark  with  sinful  doubt, 

And  finds  no  promise  in  a  world  so  fair, 
Else  would  each  star  and  fragrant  bud  give  out 

Its  pledge  that  God,  our  Hope,  is  everywhere. 


SONNET 

TO     THE    AUTHOR     OF     "  VESTIGES     OF     CREATION.  " 

.^ELF-MISSIONED    leader     through    Creation's 


maze  ! 
Dost  thou  interpret  thus  God's  mighty  scheme 

Weaving  the  cobweb  fancies  of  a  dream 
O'er  each  gray  vestige  of  liis  mystic  ways  ? 
When  thus  midst  chaos  thou  didst  blindly  grope, 

Gathering  new  links  for  matter's  heavy  chain, 
Dwelt  there  not  in  thy  soul  the  secret  hope 

That  some  strong  truth  would  rend  the  bond  of  pain 
Which  fixed  thee  to  Progression's  iron  wheel? 

O  teach  not  suffering  earth  such  hopeless  creed, — 
Too  heavy  were  her  curse  if  doomed  to  feel 

That  in  her  frequent  hour  of  bitter  need, 
Her  lifted  eye  of  prayer  could  only  see 
Necessity's  stern  laws  graven  on  Eternity. 


308  POEMS. 


SONNET 

ON    A     PICTURE    OF    THE    TWO    MARYS    AT    THE    TOMB 
OF    CHRIST. 

"  Last  at  his  cross  and  earliest  at  his  grave." 

iOT  to  the  holy  men  in  whom  the  flame 
Of  inspiration  all  serenely  burned, 
When  from  his  lips  God's    mystic  truths  they 

learned,  — 

Not  unto  them  the  risen  Christ  first  came  ; 
Theirs  were  the  gifts  of  prophecy  and  prayer, 

And  eloquent  teaching  of  his  holy  name  ; 
'Twas  theirs  his  ministry  of  good  to  share, 

To  bear  his  cross  and  to  despise  the  shame  ; 
But  they  who  humbly  sought  to  do  his  will, 

Content  to  bear  meek-hearted  woman's  doom, — 
They  who  had  lingered  last  on  Calvary's   hill, 

And  earliest  sought  their  master's  hallowed  tomb,  — 
To  them  'twas  given  their  risen  Lord  to  see, 
And  catch  the  first  bright  gleam  of  immortality. 


SONNET. 

LAS    for  those  who  quench  the  holy  spark 
Of  inspiration  in  their  secret  soul,     . 
Yielding  their  natures  up  to  earth's  control, 
Until  the  mental  sight  grows  dim  and  dark, 


THE  STAR-FLOWER.  309 

And  thought  no  longer  seeks  a  lofty  mark, 

No  longer  toils  to  reach  a  noble  goal, 

While  the  heart  drains  life's  enervating  bowl, 
And  freights  with  all  its  hopes  some  helmless  bark ! 
Alas !  alas  !  on  earthly  shrines  we  lay 

The  incense  we  should  offer  up  to  Heaven, 
We  lavish  on  an  idol  of  to-day 

The  love  that  for  infinitude  was  given, 
Till  from  our  souls  the  light  fades  slow  away, 

And    clouds    of  doubt  and   fear   are   o'er   our  spirits 
driven. 


THE   STAR-FLOWER. 

SNOW  you  whence  sprung  this  starry  flower, 

With  golden  heart  and  azure  rays, 
Which  blooms  in  every  woodland  bower 
When  fades  the  glow  of  summer  days  ? 

Then  list  the  legend  long  since  heard 

Beside  the  red  man's  winding  river, 
What  time  the  wilds  and  forests  lone 

Were  held  by  right  of  bow  and  quiver. 

They  tell  of  one,  —  a  youthful  brave 

(His  name  would  far  outrun  my  rhyme)  ; 

His  fame,  in  savage  warfare  won, 
Would  rival  those  of  classic  time. 


310  POEMS. 

They  tell  how  in  the  ambushed  strife 
An  arrow  pierced  his  fearless  breast, 

And  how,  on  Susquehanna's  marge, 
They  laid  him  with  his  sires  to  rest. 

But  when  the  burial  rites  were  done, 
And  he  in  forest  glade  was  sleeping, 

There  came  a  gentle  Indian  maid, 

Whose  starry  eyes  were  dim  with  weeping. 

She  built  her  lodge  beside  the  grave, 

And  there,  as  passed  each  dreary  morrow, 

She  still  her  faithful  vigil  held, 

And  dwelt  alone  with  love  and  sorrow. 

Full  soon,  beneath  Annunga's *  care, 

The  turf  was  decked  with  many  a  flower, 

Until  death's  dreary  home  appeared 
As  fair  as  love's  own  chosen  bower. 

There  lingered  last  the  buds  of  spring, 

There  first  glowed  forth  the  summer's  bloom, 

And  autumn's  gayest  flow'rets  shed 

Their  glories  round  that  woodland  tomb. 

All  day  within  her  silent  lodge 

The  mourner  shrunk  before  the  light, 

For  earth  beneath  the  sun's  glad  ray 
Seemed  to  her  tearful  eye  too  bright. 

1  Annung,  i.  e.  The  Star. 


THE  STAR-FLOWER.  311 

But  when  the  shades  of  evening  fell, 
Deepening  the  tint  of  leaf  and  blossom, 

And  stars  came  looking  meekly  forth, 
Glassed  in  the  river's  tranquil  bosom,  — 

Then  knelt  she  by  that  hallowed  spot, 

And  wept  the  livelong  night  away, 
Until  heaven's  sparkling  crown  grew  dim, 

And  faded  in  the  morning  ray. 

When  earth  was  wrapped  in  wintry  shroud, 
And  leafless  trees  stood  grim  and  gaunt, 

Like  giant  spectres  set  to  guard 

The  spot  where  grief  had  made  her  haunt,  — 

Still  dwelt  she  in  her  forest  lair, 

Which  cowered  beneath  the  branches  low, 

And  seemed,  amid  those  dreary  wilds, 
A  speck  upon  the  waste  of  snow. 

Thus  came  and  went  the  changing  times, 
While  still  the  maid  her  watch  was  keeping, 

Till  grief  its  weary  task  had   done, 

And  life  was  worn  with  frequent  weeping. 

But  in  that  season1  when  the  haze 

With  purple  light  the  distance  fills, 
As  if  old  Autumn  in  his    flight 

Had  dropped  his  mantle  on  the  hills  ; 

1  The  Indian  summer. 


312  POEMS. 

When  forest  trees  with  regal  pomp 

Their  wealth  of  gem-like  leaves  display, 

And  earth  in  gayest  garb  puts  on 
The  glory  that  precedes  decay,  — 

Then  prostrate  on  her  lover's  grave, 

With  long  black  hair  all  lifeless  spread, 

Shrouding  her  in  its  pall-like  gloom, 
They  found  the  gentle  maiden  dead. 

And  where  her  quivering  lip  was  pressed 
When  breathing  forth  her  life's  last  sigh, 

They,  wondering,  saw  a  nameless  flower 
Look  meekly  upward  to  the  sky. 

Such  blossom  ne'er  before  was  found 
In  woodland  brake,  or  tangled  dell ; 

It  sprung  beneath  Annunga's  sigh, 

Born  from  the  heart  that  loved  too  well. 


THE  RUINED  MILL. 

LONE  and  roofless  thing  it  stands 

In  sunshine  and  in  shower, 
Stretching  abroad  its  palsied  hands, 
A  wreck  of  giant  power ; 
Each  mouldering  beam  and  crumbling  stone 
With  velvet  moss  is  now  o'ergrown, 
While  many  a  wind-sown  flower 


THE  RUINED  MILL.  313 

Is  peeping  through  the  broken  floor, 
Seeking  the  place  it  held  of  yore. 

The  bright-eyed  toad  looks  fearless  out, 

And  newts  to  covert  steal, 
While  the  spider  weaves  his  web  about 

The  cogs  of  the  massive  wheel ; 
And  where  the  miller  once  gayly  stood 
The  adder  rears  her  hissing  brood, 

Nor  fears  his  iron  heel  ; 
Man's  rule  within  the  place  is  o'er, 
And  Nature  wins  her  own  once  more. 

O'er  the  broken  dam  the  brook  leaps  free, 

And  speeds  on  its  course  along, 
Wooing  the  wild  flowers  daintily 

With  its  smiles  and  pleasant  song; 
No  longer  chained  to  the  busy  mill, 
It  wanders  on  at  its  own  sweet  will, 

The  hoary  rocks  among, 
Then  creeps  around  the  old  tree's  foot, 
To  brighten  the  moss  on  its  gnarled  root. 

I  sate  me  on  a  gray  old  stone 

And  watched  the  lapsing  stream, 
Till  outward  things  before  me  shone 

Like  pictures  in  a  dream; 
Amid  the  mists  of  reverie, 
I  rather  seemed  to  feel  than  see 

Earth's  bright  and  sunny  gleam  ; 


314  POEMS. 

Once  more  the  angel  of  my  youth 
Touched  all  things  with  a  sweeter  truth. 

That  bright  ideal !  O,  how  well 

My  spirit  knew  its  power, 
For  early  had  I  learned  its  spell 

In  childhood's  sunny  hour ; 
It  gave  new  glory  to  the  skies, 
New  music  to  earth's  melodies, 

New  charms  to  every  flower ; 
But  rarely  now  the  gentle  sprite 
Awakes  me  to  such  deep  delight. 

Yet  there,  in  that  secluded  spot, 

Beside  the  ruined  mill, 
Came  back  the  fancies,  long  forgot, 

Which  fain  would  haunt  me  still  ; 
That  stream  an  image  seemed  to  be 
Of  mine  own  gushing  poesy, 

Wasted  with  wanton  will, 
Without  concentrate  power  to  sway 
A  leaflet  on  its  loitering  way. 


PORTRAITS. 

GENTLE  maiden,  whose  large,  loving  eyes 

Enshrine  a  tender  melancholy  light, 
Like  the  soft  radiance  of  the  starry  skies, 
Or  autumn  sunshine,  mellowed  when  most  bright ; 
She  is  not  sad,  yet  in  her  look  appears 
Something  that  makes  the  gazer  think  of  tears. 

She  is  not  beautiful ;  her  features  bear 
A  loveliness  by  angel  hands  imprest, 

Such  as  the  pure  in  heart  alone  may  wear. 
The  outward  symbol  of  a  soul  at  rest ; 

And  this  beseems  her  well,  for  love  and  truth 

Companion  ever  with  her   guileless  youth. 

She  hath  a  delicate  foot,  a  dainty  hand, 
And  every  limb  displays  unconscious  grace, 

Like  one  who,  born  a  lady  in  the  land, 

Taketh  no  thought  how  best  to  fill  her  place, 

But  moveth  ever  at  her  own  sweet  will, 

While  gentleness  and  pride  attend  her  still. 

Nor  hath  she  lost,  by  any  sad  mischance, 

The  happy  thoughts  that  to  her  years  belong  ; 


316  POEMS. 

Her  step  is  ever  fleetest  in  the  dance, 

Her  voice  is  ever  gayest  in  the  song  ; 
The  silent  air  by  her  rich  notes  is  stirred 
As  by  the  music  of  a  forest  bird. 

No  poison-breathing  passion  flowers  are  twined 
Around  the  brow  where  Heaven  has  set  its  seal 

Her  soul,  in  crystal  purity  enshrined, 
No  touch  of  earth-born  vanity  can  feel ; 

Already  half-enskyed  and  consecrate, 

The  child  of  God  awaits  her  blessed  fate. 

There  dwelleth  in  the  sinlessness  of  youth 
A  sweet  rebuke  that  vice  may  not  endure, 

And  thus  she  makes  an  atmosphere  of  truth, 
For  all  things  in  her  presence  grow  more    pure  ; 

She  walks  in  light,  —  her  guardian  angel  flings, 

A  halo  round  her  from  his  radiant  wings. 


WHAT  a  timid  watch  young  Love  was  keeping 
When  thou  wert  fashioned  in  such  gentle  guise  ! 
How  was  thy  nature  nursed  with  secret  sighs ! 
What  bitter  tears  thy  mother's  heart  were  steeping  ! 

Within  the  crystal  depths  of  thy  blue  eyes 
A  world  of  troubled  tenderness  is  sleeping, 

And  on  thy  full  and  glowing  lip  there  lies 
A  shadow  that  portends  thee  future  weeping. 
Tender  and  self-distrustful,  —  doubting  still 


PORTRAITS.  317 

Thyself,  -but  trusting  all  the  world  beside, 
Tremblingly  sensitive  to  coming  ill, 

Blending  with  woman's  fondness  manhood's  pride, — 
How  wilt  thou  all  life's  future  conflicts  bear, 
And  fearless  suffer  all  that  man  must  do  and  dare? 


'.  ROUD,    self-sustained,    and   fearless,  —  dreading 

nought 
Save  falsehood,  loving  everything  but  sin,  — 

How  glorious  is  the  light  that  from  within 
Illumes  thy  boyish  face  with  lofty  thought  ! 
A  child  art  thou,  but  thy  deep  eyes  are  fraught 

With  that  mysterious  light  by  genius  shed, 
And  in  thy  aspect  is  a  something  caught 

From  the  bright  dreams  that  cluster  round  thy  head. 
I  know  not  what  thy  future  lot  may  be  ; 

But  when  men  gather  to  a  new  crusade 
Against  earth's  falsehood,  wrong,  and  tyranny, 

Thou  wilt  be  therewith  all  thy  strength  displayed, — 
Thy  voice  clear  ringing  'mid  the  conflict's  roar, 
And  on  thy  banner  writ  in  stars,  "  Excelsior." 


H  as  thou  art  the  loved  disciple  seemed 
To  the  bright  visions  of  the  men  of  old, 
When  on  their  speaking  canvas  ever  gleamed 
His  tender  face  within  the  pitying  fold 


318  POEMS. 

Of  the  meek  Saviour's  arm,  as  if  His  breast 
Gave  its  own  softness  to  the  cheek  it  prest. 

Such  look  is  thine,  my  gentle  one ;  I  meet 
Upsearching  reverence  in  those  pure  eyes, 

And  on  my  soul  rush  yearnings  sad  and  sweet, 
While  hopes  and  memories  together  rise,  — 

Hopes  that  for  thee  on  time's  wild  waves  are  tost, 

Memories  that  linger  with  the  loved  and  lost. 

There  beams  a  tender  sadness  in  thy  face, 

Which,  though  ofttimes  exchanged  for  sunbright  glee, 

Yet  conies  back  ever  with  a  winning  grace, 
Drawing  our  hearts,  as  by  a  spell,  to  thee, 

And  telling  of  the  deep  and  trusting  love 

That  o'er  thy  spirit  broodeth  like  a  dove. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  LAMENT. 

FOR  one  draught  of  those  sweet  waters  now, 
That  shed  such  freshness  o'er  my  early  life  ! 
O  that  I  could  but  bathe  my  fevered  brow, 
To  wash  away  the  dust  of  worldly  strife, 
And  be  a  simple-hearted  child  once  more, 
As  if  I  ne'er  had  known  this  world's  pernicious  lore  ! 

My  heart  is  weary,  and  my  spirit  pants 
Beneath  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  : 

Would  that  I  could  regain  those  shady  haunts 

Where  once  with  hope  I  dreamed  the  hours  away, 

Giving  my  thoughts  to  tales  of  old  romance, 

And  yielding  up  my  soul  to  youth's  delicious  trance  ! 

Vain  are  such  wishes  !     I  no  more  may  tread 
With  lingering  step  and  slow  the  green  hill-side ; 

Before  me  now  life's  shortening  path  is  spread, 
And  I  must  onward,  whatsoe'er  betide ; 

The  pleasant  nooks  of  youth  are  passed  for  aye, 

And  sober  scenes  now  meet  the  traveller  on  his  way. 

Alas  !  the  dust  which  clogs  my  weary  feet, 
Glitters  with  fragments  of  each  ruined  shrine 


320  POEMS. 

Where  once  my  spirit  worshipped,  when  with  sweet 

And  passionless  enthusiasm  it  could  twine 
Its  strong  affections  round  earth's  earthliest  things, 
Yet  bear  away  no  stain  upon  its  snowy  wings. 

What  though  some  flowers  have  'scaped    the    tempest's 
wrath  ? 

Daily  they  droop  by  nature's  swift  decay. 
What  though  the  setting  sun  still  lights  my  path? 

Morn's  dewy  freshness  long  has  passed  away ; 
O  give  me  back  life's  newly  budded  flowers  ! 
Let  me  once  more  inhale  the  breath  of  morning's  hours  ' 

My  youth !  my  youth  !  O  give  me  back  my  youth  ! 

Not  the  unfurrowed  brow  and  blooming  cheek, 
But  childhood's  sunny  thoughts,  its  perfect  truth, 

And  youth's  unworldly  feelings  ;  these  I  seek  ! 
Ah  who  can  e'er  be  sinless  and  yet  sage  ? 
Would  that  I  might  forget  Time's  dark  and  blotted  page  ! 


PATIENT  LOVE. 

KNOW  thou  lovest  me  not ;  I  know 

My  image  now  must  seem 
A  footprint  in  the  drifting  snow, 
A  shadow  on  the  stream  ; 
Yet  on  thy  memory  will  I  trace 
A  name  that  years  can  ne'er  efface. 


PATIENT  LOVE.  321 

I  know  that  all  thy  dreams  of  life 
With  brighter  hopes  are  fraught, 

Yet  'mid  the  future's  weary  strife 
Will  come  a  gentle  thought, 

Winning  thy  heart  in  sadness  back 

To  pleasures  in  thy  by-past  track. 

I  would  not  bind  thee  by  a  spell, 

Were  mine  a  Circe's  skill  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee  half  so  well 

But  for  thy  curbless  will ; 
The  fettered  eagle  ne'er  should  be 
An  emblem  meet  for  one  like  thee. 

I  twine  no  garlands  for  thy  brow, 

I  weave  no  silken  tie  ; 
Thou  wert  not  worthy  of  my  vow  : 

Couldst  thou  in  bondage  sigh  ? 
My  heart's  deep  faith  I  would  not  yield 
To  one  \Vho  bore  a  rusted  shield. 

Go  forth  in  hopefulness  and  pride, 
And  while  earth's  joys  are  thine, 

I  ask  not  thou  shouldst  turn  aside 
To  friendship's  lowly  shrine, 

Where  kneeleth  one  who  there  always 

For  thee  in  humble  meekness  prays. 

No  thought  in  mirthful  hour  I  claim  ; 
But  when  thy  sorrows  come, 


322  POEMS. 

Then  wilt  thou  think  upon  my  name, 

And  seek  thy  spirit's  home. 
Let  others  share  thy  pleasures  brief  : 
I  only  ask  to  bear  thy  grief. 

To  thee  I  am  as  nothing  now, 
And  so  I  fain  would  be  ; 

I  bide  the  coming  time  when  thou 
Shalt  fondly  think  of  me, 

And  turn,  when  brighter  hopes  depart, 

To  rest  upon  my  patient  heart. 


SONNET. 

BRING  to  thee  no  gift,  no  outward  sign 
Of  the  indwelling  love  that  fills  my  heart  : 
No  symbol-language  meetly  may  impart 
An  emblem  quaint  for  tenderness  like  mine. 
I  bring  to  thee  no  gift ;  I  could  not  twine 
Flowers  as  unfading  as  affection's  bloom, 
And  Earth  holds  not  in  all  her  caverned  gloom 
A  gem  that  like  unfailing  truth  may  shine. 
I  bring  no  gift ;  for  long  ago  I  gave 

All  that  was  worthiest  both  of  heart  and  brain  ; 
And  thou  hast  learned,  in  love  and  trust,  to  brave 

The  poet's  waywardness,  perchance  with  pain, 
But  yet  with  hope  ;  as  from  the  stormiest  wave 
The  diver  ever  seeks  his  purest  pearls  to  gain. 


DREAMS.  323 

DREAMS. 

"  So  he  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

Psalm  cxxvii. 

pE  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  ; "  O  blest 

The  boon  that  stills  the  fevered  pulse  of  pain, 
Shedding  refreshing  dews  o'er  heart  and  brain, 
And  to  the  sorrow  stricken  bringing  rest. 

"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  ;  "  how  vain 
Were  all  earth's  blessings  if  bereft  of  this  ! 
How  would  we  faint  e'en  'mid  continuous  bliss, 

Could  we  no  moment  of  repose  attain  ! 

He  giveth  sleep,  but  ah  !  he  giveth  more  ; 

When  the  worn  frame  in  peaceful  slumber  lies, 
The  spirit  soars  beneath  enchanted  skies, 

And  finds  youth's  fountain  on  a  brighter  shore. 

From  angel  pinions  come  the  sunny  gleams 

That  make  the  world  of  sleep  a  world  of  light ; 
Day  brings  its  sins  and  sorrows,  but  the  night 

Still  wooes  us  heavenward  through  the  land  of  Dreams. 


324  POEMS 


ILLUSIONS. 

"  Shadows  we  are,  and  shadows  we  pursue." 

UMBER  the  riches  by  thy  memory  hoarded, 

Relics  of  joys  thy  by-past  years  have  known  . 
How  many  real  things  are  here  recorded  ? 
How  much  true  light  was  o'er  thy  pathway  thrown  ? 

'Twas  fancy's  hand  bestowed  the  fairy  treasures 
That  made  thee  rich  in  boyhood's  golden  time, 

Imagination  deepened  all  youth's  pleasures, 
Illusion  brightened  all  thy  manhood's  prime. 

Seen  through  the  wave  of  time  above  them  sweeping, 
Hope's  broken  fanes  in  softer  splendor  gleam  ; 

The  retrospective  eye  forgets  its  weeping, 
The  past  wears  all  the  glory  of  a  dream. 

How  can  we  say  this  joy  or  that  was  real, 

When  all  have  passed  like  visions  of  the  night  ? 

How  can  we  know  the  true  from  the  ideal  ? 

Which  glowed  with  inward,  which  with  outward  light  ? 

It  needs  not  we  should  ask  :  the  grave's  dark  portal 
Soon  shuts  this  world  of  shadows  from  our  view ; 

Then  shall  we  grasp  realities  immortal, 
If  to  the  truth  within  us  we  are  true. 


STANZAS.  325 


STANZAS. 
AY,  fear  me  not ;  deem  not  that  I  would  meet 

With  bitter  word,  cold  look,  or  chilling  tone ; 
I  could  —  I  think  I  could  now  calmly  greet  thee 

With  the  bland  smile  of  courtesy  alone  ; 
Why  should  I  not,  since  thou  wert  not  the  friend 
On  whom  my  heart  did  so  much  wealth  expend  ? 

'Twas  my  own  fancy  conjured  up  a  creature 
High-souled  and  earnest,  pure  and  passion  free. 

Made  it  assume  thy  shape  in  form  and  feature, 
Gave  it  thy  thrilling  tones,  and  called  it  thee  ; 

It  was  no  fault  of  thine  that  I  was  schooled 

To  know  myself  by  my  own  nature  fooled. 

I  did  mistake  thee,  yet  thy  thought  is  cherished 
Amid  the  heart's  rich  relics  of  the  past ; 

Though  all  that  made  its  charm  has  long  since  perished, 
'Twas  an  illusion  pleasant  to  the  last, 

And  gentle  memories  in  my  bosom  dwell 

Of  friendship's  faded  dream  and  broken  spell. 

So  on  thy  heart,  in  hours  of  lonely  sadness, 

Will  beam  the  image  of  a  loving  eye, 
That  once  could  brighten  at  thy  mood  of  gladness, 

Or  darken   into  sorrow  at  thy  sigh, 
Till  to  thy  soul  comes  back  its  haunting  pain, 
Its  quenchless  thirst  for  sympathy  again. 


326  POEMS. 

I  would  have  saved  thee  from  this  yearning  sorrow, 
And  shared  the  pangs  that  wring  thy  fevered  brow, 

But  thou  hast  willed  it  thus  :  the  cheating  morrow 
Still  wins  thy  fealty  from  the  truthful   now  ; 

The  false  mirage  that  in  the  desert  gleams 

Can  tempt  thee  ever  from  life's  freshening  streams. 

I  think  of  thee  as  of  a  friend  departed 

To  some  far  region  which  I  ne'er  may  tread  ; 

The  air  thou  breathest  is  not  for  the  true-hearted, 
Therefore  art  thou  more  distant  than  the  dead. 

Alas  !  the  surest  trust?  our  heart  can  feel, 

Is  in  that  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal. 


SONNET. 

OW  are  men  worn  with  heaviness  of  heart, 
And  wasted  with  fierce  turmoil  of  the  soul ! 
Surge  after  surge  our  passions  wildly  roll, 
Sweeping  o'er  each  sweet  hope  till  life  depart. 
Earth  holds  no  balsam  for  the  bitter  smart 
Of  feelings  wounded  as  by  insect  stings, 
Of  instincts  crushed  beneath  earth's  baser  things, 
And  tortured  till  they  learn  the  torturer's  art. 
Fame  has  no  clarion  note  to  drown  the  cry 
That  from  our  nature's  anguished  depths  comes  up ! 
Love  —  alas!  from  Love's  empoisoned  cup 

We  drink  the  honeyed  draught  by  which  we  die. 
O  God  of  mercy !  bid  this  tumult  cease  : 
Thy  hand  alone  can  shed  the  clews  of  holy  peace. 


STANZAS.  327 


SONNET  ON  HEARING  MUSIC. 

!HE  wind's    sad    song    through    ocean's    echoing 

cave, 

The  wave's  deep  sob  a  foundered  bark  above, 
A  mother's  wail  beside  the  span-long  grave 

Which  holds  the  earliest  blossom  of  her  love, 
The  dove's  low  plaining  through  the  high-arched  grove 

Where  falling  waters  blend  their  monotone 

With  rustling  leaves,  and  that  deep-cadenced  moan, 
While  evening's  breath  the  closing  blossoms  move, — 
The  sweetest,  saddest  music  ever  heard 

From  earth's  rich  harp,  with  all  its  thousand  strings, 
Comes  to  my  fancy,  and  my  soul  is  stirred 

As  by  the  waving  of  an  angel's  wings 
When  that  deep  thrilling  melody  hath  spoken 
Its  tale  of  hallowed  grief,  its  death-song  of  hearts  broken. 


STANZAS. 

AY,  fathom    not  Time's   rushing  stream 

When  swollen  its  tide  with  tears, 
And  count  not  over  faded  dream 
To  measure  out  thy  years. 

O  !  even  for  the  darkest  lot 
Hath  life  some  blessed  thing, 


328  POEMS. 

As  earth  holds  not  the  sterile  spot 
Where  verdure  may  not  spring. 

But  we  in  bitter  discontent 
The  wayside  blossom  spurn, 

And  for  some  bright  and  far-off  star 
With  wild,  vain  longings  yearn. 

When  sunbeams  cross  our  pathway  dark, 

We  joy  not  in  their  ray, 
But  set  a  dial  up  to  mark 

How  swift  -they  pass  away. 

Yet  would  we  take  the  joy  that  is, 
Nor  dream  of  what  might  be  ; 

Time  could  be  meted  out  by  bliss, 
Not  marked  by  misery. 

For  even  in  our  daily  paths, 

With  thorns  and  brambles  strown, 

The  seeds  of  many  an  Eden  flower 
By  angel  hands  are  sown. 


STANZAS. 

"  Ephraim  has  turned  to  his  idols  :  let  him  alone." 

ET  him  alone  !  "  he  clingeth  to  his  idol, 

Binding  his  soul  beneath  earth's  heavy  chain 
=^a    And  now  no  longer  shall  God's  mercy  bridle 


His  wild  desires,  his  passions  fierce  as  vain. 


•  THE    WAYSIDE  BROOK.  329 

"  Let  him  alone  !  "  his  gifted  soul  now  spurneth 

Its  lofty  destiny  for  meatier  things  ; 
To  earthly  dreams  in  its  blind  faith  it  turneth  ; 

Life's  murky  air  has  stained  its  snowy  wings. 

"  Let  him  alone  !  "  the  Spirit  hath  departed, 

Which,  often  grieved,  shall  strive  with  him  no  more  ; 

Now  must  he  onward,  until,  weary-hearted, 
He  loathes  the  idol  which  he  loved  of  yore. 

"  Let  him  alone  !  "  the  awful  doom  is  spoken  ; 

Leave  him  to  quaff  the  cup  his  hands  have  filled  ; 
O  !  know  we  not,  by  many  a  bitter  token, 

What  poisons  by  our  passions  are  distilled  ? 


THE  WAYSIDE  BROOK. 

OT  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  glade 
Where  the  elm-tree  flingeth   its  graceful  shade, 
Where  the  noontide  ray  through  the  alder's  bough 
Just  scatters  its  sheen  on  the  wave  below, 
\Vhere  no  footfall  crushes  the  daisied  brink, 
Where  the  wild-bird  stoops  on  its  flight  to  drink, 
Where  the  wood  and  the  upland  with  melody  ring,  — 
Not  there,  O  brook !  do  thy  waters  spring. 

Nor  yet  where  the  gray  old  rocks  are   piled 
In  the  rugged  pass  of  some  mountain  wild, 


330  POEMS. 

Where  the  mossy  stones  seem  striving  to  keep 
Thy  glad  stream  back  from  its  joyous  leap, 
While  thy  silvery  foam  in  the  distance  gleams 
Like  a  snow-white  pennon  when  morning  beams, 
And  the  rush  of  thy  tiny  waves  might  sound 
Like  a  trumpet-call  mid  the  caves  around. 

O !  not  for  thee  is  the  shady  nook, 
Or  the  mountain  channels,  thou  wayside   brook  ! 
By  the  dusty  road  thou  art  speeding  along, 
Wasting  unheeded  thy  smiles  and   thy  song. 
No  beauty  hast  thou  for  the  traveller's  eye, 
Thou  wakest  no  spell  as  thou  glidest  by, 
Thy  freshness  is  failing  with  each  summer  day  : 
How  canst  thou  sing  on  thy  lowly  way  ? 

Brook  of  the  wayside  !  though  footsteps  may  crush 

The  daisies  that  bend  where  thy  glad  waters  rush ; 

Though  dust  from  the  highway  thy  brightness  may  dim, 

Yet  ceaseless  thou  singest  thy  low  chanted  hymn. 

Brook  of  the  wayside !  while  musing  I  trace 

Thy  humble  course  onward  in  freedom  and  grace, 

A  lesson  of  life  can  thy  music  impart, 

Thou  type  of  the  meek  and  the  lowly  in  heart. 


THE    VOICE   OF  THE  BROOK.  331 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BROOK. 

cometh  to  me  ever, 
That  melancholy  voice,  — 
When  the  joyous  tones  of  morning 
Would  bid  my  soul  rejoice, 
When  the  noontide  ray  has  silenced 

The  song  of  bird  and  bee, 
When  the  star  of  evening  waketh 

Earth's  vesper  melody  ; 
It  cometh  to  me  ever, 

That  low  and  tender  song, 
Which  the  hidden  brook  is  pouring 
As  it  flows  unseen  along. 

It  cometh  to  me  ever, 

That  solemn  undertone  : 
When  sounds  of  mirth  are  in  the  air 

It  seems  a  far-off  moan  • 
But  when  sad  memories  awake, 

And  earth  seems  lone  and  drear, 
Its  voice  of  melody  gives  out 

A  hymn  of  holy  cheer  ; 
And  sometimes,  too,  in  moody  hour 

It  falleth  on  my  ear, 
With  a  sound  as  of  the  rustling  wings 

Of  guardian  angels  near. 

It  cometh  to  me  ever: 

In  the  silent  hours  of  night, 


332  POEMS. 

When  my  spirit  comes  unwilling  back 

From  dreamland's  worlds  of  light, 
Where  its  golden  gates  are  closing, 

And  I  linger  still  to   hear 
The  music  of  those  angel  harps 

That  claimed  my  sleeping  ear, 
Then  comes  the  moaning  of  the  brook, 

With  fancy's  music  blending, 
Like  the  wail  of  human  love  and  grief 

'Mid  seraph  choirs  ascending. 

It  cometh  to  me  ever: 

Howe'er  the  air  is  stirred 
With  noisier  sounds  of  busy  life, 

That  singing  brook  is  heard  ; 
It  cometh  like  the  mystic  voice 

Which  e'en  mid  care  and  strife, 
Still  whispers  to  our  secret  souls 

A  dream  of  holier  life, — 
The  voice  which,  when  on  danger's  brink 

Our  heedless  feet  have  trod, 
Has  taught  us  that  within  us  dwelt 

The  oracle  of  God. 


SONG. 

UNSHINE  dancing  on  the  ocean, 

Insects  sporting  on  the  air, 
Winged  seeds  in  breezy  motion, 
All  things  bright  and  frail  as  fair,  — 


SONG.  333 

Such  be  emblems  meet  for  me, 
In  my  glad  inconstancy. 

Gems  in  earth's  dark  bosom   burning, 
Pearls  in  ocean's  depths  that  lie, 

Flowers  that  to  the  sun  are  turning 
While  they  perish  'neath  his  eye,  — 

Symbols  these  of  faith  may  be 

But  I  seek  them  not  for   me. 

Who  that  plucks  earth's  fragrant  blossom 
Thinks  of  gems  that  lie  beneath  ? 

Borne  on  ocean's  placid  bosom, 

Who  would  seek  her  pearled  wreath  ? 

No  !  the  joy  I  feel  and    see, 

This  shall  be  enough  for  me. 

'Tis  because  my  heart  has  tasted 

Life's  full  cup  of  joy  and  pain, 
And  with  spendthrift  folly  wasted 

Faith  that  cometh  not  again,  — 
'Tis  for  this  I  scorn  to  be 
Slave  to  thankless   constancy. 


334  POEMS. 


HOW  WILL  YE  THINK  OF  ME  ? 

HEN  Life's  false  oracles,  no  more  replying 

To  baffled  Hope,  shall  mock  my  weary  quest ; 
When,  in  the  grave's  cold  shadow  calmly  lying, 
This  heart  at  last  has  found  its  earthly  rest  — 
How  will  ye  think  of  me  ?     O  gentle  friends, 
How  will  ye  think  of  me  ? 

Perhaps  the  wayside  flowers  around  ye  springing, 
Wasting  unmarked  their  fragrance  and  their  bloom, 

Or  some  fresh  fount  in  the  lone  forest  singing 

Unheard,  unheeded,  may  recall  my  doom  : 

Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  ? 

Or  let  the  day-beam  glancing  o'er  the  ocean 
Picture  my  restless  heart,  which,  like  yon  wave, 

Reflected  doubly,  in  its  wild  commotion, 

Each  ray  of  light  that  pleasure's  sunshine   gave  : 
Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  ? 

Will  ye  bring  back  my  memory's  art,  the  gladness 
That  sent  my  fancies  forth  like  summer  birds  ? 

Or  will  ye  list  that  undertone  of  sadness, 

Whose  music  seldom  shaped  itself  in  words? 
Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  ? 

Remember  not  how  dreams,  around  me  thronging, 
Enticed  me  ever  from  life's  lowly  way, 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC.  335 

But  O  !  still  hearken  to  the  deep  soul-longing 
Whose  mournful  tones  pervade  the  poet's  lay,  — 
Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  ? 

And  then,  forgetting  every  wayward  feeling, 

Bethink  ye  only  that  I  loved  ye  well, 
Till  o'er  your  souls  that  "  late  remorse  "  is  stealing 
Whose  voiceless  anguish  only  tears  can  tell : 

Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  ?     O  gentle  friends  ! 
Will  ye  thus  think  of  me  ? 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

>ITHIN  my  bosom's  secret  shrine, 
There  dwells  a  form  which  is  not  thine  ; 
For  long  before  I  saw  thy  face, 
Love  there  had  found  his  dwelling-place  ; 
And  cherished  still  that  love  must  be, 
Although  I  since  have  looked  on  thee. 

I  know  not  if  thine  image  dwells 
In  wizard  memory's  haunted  cells, 
But  somewhere  in  my  heart  it  bides, 
And  through  each  lonely  chamber  glides, 
Until  it  almost  seems  to  me 
No  other  there  had  claim  to  be. 


336  POEMS. 

That  inner  shrine  thou  canst  not  hope 

Ever  with  magic  key  to  ope, 

But  still  within  my  cloistered  breast 

Thou  hast  so  long  been  welcome  guest, 

That  now  it  almost  seems  to  me 

I  could  not  live  if  wanting  thee. 


THE  PEASANT  GIRL'S  WISH. 

WOULD .  I  were  a   lady  !     Methinks  if  I  were 

clad 
In   silken   garments   every   day,  I    never   could 

be  sad  ; 
No  peasant's  coif  should  cover  then  my  soft  and  glossy 

curls, 

But   every  tress   should   find   its   place    'mid   bands   of 
snowy  pearls. 

O  would  I  were  a  lady  !     I  would  not  sit  within 

Yon  cottage  porch  the  livelong  day  so  wearily  to    spin  ; 

A  stately  coach  should  bear  me  with  my  greyhound  at 

my  feet, 
And   with    a   proud   but   winning   smile    the   gentles    I 

would  greet. 

O  would  I  were  a  lady,  to  sit  beside  the  board, 
Where  costly  dainties  deck  the  feast,  and  the  rich  wine 
is  poured  ! 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  LAST  WISH.  337 

How  would  I  queen  it  o'er  the  guests  !  while  youths  of 

high  degree, 
If  I  but    kissed    the   golden    cup,  would   pledge  me  on 

their  knee. 

O  would  I  were  a  lady  !  to  lead  the  courtly  dance, 
While  many  a  gallant    gentleman  was  watching  for    my 

glance  ! 
I'd  smile  on  crowds  of  lovers,  and  each  should  play  his 

part, 
Till  one  by  noble    deeds    had    found   his  way  into   my 

heart. 

O  would  I  were  a  lady !     They  tell  me  I  am  fair, 
With  merry  eye,  and  sunny  brow,  and  braids  of  glossy 

hair  ; 

But  O  !  how  much  more  beautiful  is  beauty  when  bedight 
With  silken  robe  and  sparkling  gem,  like  a  stately  lady 

bright ! 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  LAST  WISH. 

'HE  Psalmist's  span  of  life  had  past 

Full  twenty  years  or  more, 
And  still  the  old  man's  footsteps  tracked 
The  sands  on  Time's  wide  shore, 
While  Death's  dark  wave  impatient  swelled 
Those  footprints  to  sweep  o'er. 


338  FORMS. 

Aye,  more  than  ninety  years  had  shed 
Their  sunshine  and  their  shade, 

Since  first  upon  that  aged  head 
A  father's  hand  was  laid  ; 

And  now  not  one  was  left  of  all 
With  whom  his  childhood  played. 

The  memory  of  that  far-off  Past 

Had  faded  from  his  sight ; 
The  mists  of  many  years  had  dimmed 

Life's  golden  morning  light ; 
And  he  was  now  content  to  watch 

The  closing  shades  of  night. 

But  when  at  length  Death's  summons  came, 
While  breath  was  ebbing  fast, 

Those  veiling  mists  were  rent  atwain, 
As  by  a  mighty  blast, 

And  once  again  the  old  man  lived 
In  that  long-hidden  Past. 

Once  more  he  saw  the  homestead  where 

His  youth  had  passed  away, 
The  trees  that  interlaced  above 

Its  roof  so  old  and  gray, 
The  sheltering  porch  whose  trellised  vines 

Gleamed  in  the  sunset  ray. 

And  strange  unto  his  failing  eyes 

The  Present  quickly  grew, 
The  old  familiar  faces  near 


THE   OLD  MAN'S  LAST  WISH.  339 

Now  wore  an  aspect  new, 
And  ever  on  his  sinking  heart 
A  gloom  their  coming  threw. 

"  O  take  me  home  !  "   'twas  thus  he  spake 

To  all  who  gathered  nigh  ; 
"  Beneath  the  roof  where  I  was  born, 

There  would  I  choose  to  die  ; 
Then  take  me  home !     O  take  me  home !  " 

Was  still  the  old  man's  cry. 

For  memory's  voice  within  his  soul 

Sang  like  a  spirit-bird, 
Until  the  tones  of  other  years 

Alone  his  cold  ear  heard  ; 
And  all  his  nature's  time-sealed  depths 

Were  by  that  music  stirred. 

And  brighter  still,  and  brighter  grew 

These  visions  to  the  last : 
"  O  take  me  home  !  "  was  still  his  cry 

While  life  was  fleeting  fast, 
And  with  this  prayer  upon  his  lips 

The  weary  spirit  passed. 

When  on  the  grave's  dark  verge  at  last 

The  time-worn  body  lies, 
And  visions  of  a  brighter  world 

Float  past  the  glazing  eyes, 
O  !  who  can  tell  what  shape  may  take 

These  dreams  of  paradise? 


340  POEMS 

Still  to  the  struggling  spirit  clings 

The  heavy  weight  of  clay ; 
It  hath  not  yet  put  on  its  wings 

To  soar  from  earth  away  ; 
What  marvel  if  its  visions  wear 

The  glory  of  youth's  day, 
And  life's  bright  morning-star  appears 

Like  heaven's  first  golden  ray? 


THE  POET'S  PRAYER. 


$  EAVE  me  not,  love  !  ('twas  thus  a  poet  chanted 
Mb     ^'s  neart's  fond  pleading  to  the  midnight  air,) 
r. — --t    Leave  not  the  dwelling  by  thy  presence  haunted, 


The  home  thou  long  hast  filled  with  visions  fair. 

O  leave  me  not !  although  thy  fleeting  pleasures 
Are  but  as  snow-flakes  in  the  sun's  warm  ray, 

Though  thy  best  gifts  are  only  fair)'  treasures, 
A  golden  glitter  fling  o'er  things  of  clay.  — 

Vet  leave  me  not  :  all  earthly  hopes  have  perished. 

And  e'en  thine  hour  of  promise  has  gone  by, 
But  I  would  fain  the  fond  illusion  cherish 

Which  still  in  joy  or  sorrow  brought  thee  nigh. 

Perhaps  my  hand  (like  hers  in  olden  story) 
Let  fall  the  burning  drop  that  broke  thy  rest, 


STAXZAS.  341 

Marring  by  base  distrust  thy  veiled  glory. 

And  scaring  thee  too  rudely  from  my  breast ; 

Vet  leave  me  not !  although  thy  shrine  be  broken, 
Though  all  its  votive  wreaths  are  long  since  gone  ; 

Faith  lingers  there,  albeit  the  prayer,  unspoken. 
Dies  on  her  lip  like  sorrow's  half-breathed  moan. 


STANZAS. 

"  The  night  cotneth,  when  DO  man  can  work." 

:E  who  in  the  field  of  human  life 

Quickening  seeds  of  wisdom  fain  would  sow, 
Pause  not  for  the  angry  tempest's  strife, 
Shrink  not  from  the  noontide's  fervid  glow ; 
Labor  on,  while  yet  the  light  of  day 
Sheds  upon  your  path  its  blessed  ray, 
For  the  night  cometh  ! 

Ye  who  at  man's  mightiest  engine  stand, 

Moulding  noble  thought  into  opinion, 
O  stay  not  for  weariness  your  hand, 

Till  ye  fix  the  bounds  of  truth's  dominion  ; 
Labor  on,  while  yet  the  light  of  day 
Sheds  upon  your  toil  its  blessed  ray, 
For  the  night  cometh ! 

Ye  to  whom  a  prophet-voice  is  given. 
Stirring  men  as  by  a  trumpet  call, 


342  POEMS. 

Utter  forth  the  oracles  of  Heaven,  — 

Earth  gives  back  the  echoes  as  they  fall ; 
O  speak  out,  while  yet  the  light  of  day 
Breaks  life's  slumber  with  its  blessed  ray, 
For  the  night  cometh  ! 

Ye  who  in  home's  narrow  circle  dwell, 

Feeding  Love's  flame  upon  the  household  hearth, 

Weave  the  silken  bond,  and  wake  the  spell 
Binding  heart  to  heart  throughout  the  earth  ; 

Gentle  toil  is  yours  ;  the  light  of  clay 

On  nought  holier  sheds  its  blessed  ray  • 
Yet  the  night  cometh  ! 

Diverse  though  our  paths  in  life  may  be, 

Each  is  sent  some  mission  to  fulfill  ; 
Fellow-workers  in  the  world  are  we 

While  we  seek  to  do  our  Master  s  will  ; 
But  our  doom  is  labor  while  the  day 
Lights  us  to  our  task  with  blessed  ray, 
For  the  night  cometh  ! 

Fellow-workers  are  we ;  hour  by  hour, 

Human  tools  are  shaping  Heaven's  great  schemes, 
Till  we  see  no  limit  to  man's  power, 

And  reality  outstrips  old  dreams  : 
Toil  and  struggle,  therefore,  work  and  weep  ; 
In  "  God's  acre  "  ye  shall  calmly  sleep, 
When  the  night  cometh  ! 


WEARY  SPIRIT.  343 

WEARY   SPIRIT. 

TO    . 

EARY  spirit,  fold  thy  drooping  wings  ; 

O  resign  thy  sad  and  hopeless  quest : 
Not  on  earth  dwells  the  pure  love  that  flings 
Light  to  lure  thee  to  thy  heaven  of  rest. 

Weary  spirit,  crush  the  hope  that  springs 

Ever  within  thee  as  its  fellow  dies ; 
Treasured  in  heaven,  with  Eden's  precious  things, 

Dwells  the  ideal  that  eludes  thine  eyes. 

O  give  o'er  thy  heart's  vain  wanderings  now  ; 

E'en  if  led  aright  by  fancy's  beams, 
Couldst  thou,  while  the  earth-veil  dims  her  brow, 

Recognize  the  Psyche  of  thy  dreams  ? 

Weary  spirit,  cease  thy  idle  quest ; 

Listen  to  thy  heart's  deep  voice  at  last ; 
Nestle  on  some  kind  and  loving  breast 

Till  life's  mystery  be  overpast. 

Round  thee  lies  the  earnest  and  the  real, 
Life's  affections  clustered  near  thee  stand, 

While  at  heaven's  high  gate  thy  bright  ideal 
Waits  to  greet  thee  in  yon  spirit-land. 


344  POEMS. 

In  thine  inmost  heart  the  bright  clream  cherish, 
Feed  the  flame  that  pointeth  to  the  skies, 

But  let  not  earth's  flowers  unheeded  perish, 
While  the  far-off  stars  attract  thine  eyes. 


STANZAS,  WRITTEN  AFTER  LISTENING  TO 
MUSIC. 

'ITHIN  a  lonely  chamber 

A  silent  harp  was  hung ; 
The  gathered  rust  of  many  years 
Upon  its  chords  was  flung, 
And  human  hand  might  never  rove 
Those  voiceless  chords  among. 

Within  that  lonely  chamber 

No  human  foot  might  tread ; 
The  pleasant  things  once  treasured  there 

With  by-gone  years  were  fled, 
And  shadowy  forms  now  peopled  it, 

Like  spectres  of  the  dead. 

But  to  that  cell  deserted 

There  came  a  gentle  dream, 
And  the  gloomy  darkness  vanished 

Before  that  silvery  gleam, 
While  the  ghastly  phantoms  in  its  light 

Like  angel  visions  seem. 


"  DOUBT  ME  NOT."  345 

And  to  those  silent  harp-strings 

There  came  a  breath  of  song, 
A  vague  and  wandering  breath  that  swept 

Its  rusted  chords  among, 
And  once  again  its  ringing  tones 

Were  poured  forth  deep  and  strong. 

The  gentle  dream  soon  vanished, 
And  the  breath  of  song  swept  by  ; 

Again  in  gloom  and  darkness 
That  haunted  cell  must  lie, 

And  the  voice  of  that  long-silent  harp 
In  wailing  sad  must  die. 

Not  so  !  not  so  !  though  darkness 

May  fill  that  haunted  cell, 
No  more  the  chain  of  silence 

Upon  that  harp  may  dwell, 
But  ever  must  it  echo  now 

To  Music's  mystic  spell. 


"DOUBT    ME    NOT." 

me  not,"  thou  !  though  all  beside  might 
falter 

When  comes  the  test  hour  of  their  love    and 
truth, 


346  POEMS. 

Though  all  the  old  familiar  faces  alter 

Till  nought  remain  to  thee  of  by-gone  youth, 
Yet  doubt  not  me  ;  the  loyalty  Love  taught 
Is  still  unbroken  by  a  wandering  thought. 

By  the  wild  love,  which,  reckless  of  a  morrow, 
Cherished  its  sweet  but  hopeless  dream  of  thee  ; 

By  the  vain  yearnings  of  my  young  heart's  sorrow ; 
By  weary  days,  and  nights  of  agony  ; 

By  the  deep  scars  that  in  my  soul  remain, 

To  mark  how  close  it  clasped  its  heavy  chain  ; 

By  all  the  spendthrift  tenderness  that  flung 
Its  richest  gifts  unasked  before  thy  feet; 

By  the  high   impulse   that  so  early  strung 

The  minstrel  harp  whose  voice  to  thee  is  sweet ; 

By  the  devotion  of  a  heart  whose  pride 

Was  loving  thee  when  every  hope  had  died  ; 

By  these  sad  memories  of  a  blighted  past, 
And  by  the  peacefulness  of  present  days  ; 

By  the  calm  joys  thy  hand  has  round  me  cast, 
As  one  by  one  each  flower  of  youth  decays  ; 

By  the  deep  love  thy  soul  has  caught  from  mine, 

Through  years  of  wedded  love,  —  I  still  am  thine. 

Forever  thine,  in  life,  in  death,  the  same  : 
The  love  that  prayerful  sorrow  sanctifies 

Was  born  for  heaven,  and,  like  the  mounting  flame, 
Points  ever  upward  to  th'  immortal  skies  ; 

There  only  shall  my  heart's  deep  truth  be  shown, 

There  only  shall   we  know,  and  there  be  known. 


EPITAPHS  ON  A    YOUNG  LADY.  347 

EPITAPHS  ON  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

I. 
ALLED  from  life's  banquet  ere  one    rose   grew 


Which  love  had  wreathed  around  thy  youthful 

brow, 

Death  summoned  thee  to  joys  that  never  fail, 
And  made  thee  thus  the  angel  thou  art  now. 

II. 

Gifted  with  all  that  life  could  bless, 
Thine  early  death  we  must,  deplore  ; 

For  earth  hath  now  one  saint  the  less, 

Though  heaven  hath  gained  one  angel  more. 


SONGS  FOR  MUSIC. 

OT  thus  !  O  look  not  thus  upon  me  ! 

Nor  breathe  for  me  that  plaintive  strain ; 
That  glance,  those  tones  have  almost  won  me 
Back  to  my  early  dreams  again. 

Some  spell  my  every  sense  enthralleth ; 

Fain  would  I  yield  my  spirit  up 
To  softness  that  upon  me  falleth 

Like  dew  within  the  floweret's  cup. 

O  turn  away  those  eyes'  soft  pleading, 
And  thou,  bewildering  voice,  be  still : 

That  gaze  my  inmost  soul  seems  reading, 
Those  tones  my  bosom  wildly  thrill. 

Nay,  tempt  me  not :  my  heart  has  taken 

Its  vow  of  silence  long  ago  ; 
And  never  more  its  pulse  must  waken 

One  fever-throb  of  joy  or  woe. 

Away  !  my  life  is  all  too  real ; 

Youth's  love-dreams  may  not  rule  its  fate  ; 
Why  comest  thou  then,  O  bright  ideal, 

To  mock  me  thus,  too  late  —  too  late ! 


SONGS  FOR  MUSIC.  349 

HEN  them  art  absent,  my  heart  telleth  o'er 

The  tender  thoughts  it  cherished  for  thee, 
Hoarding  up,  miser-like,  the  precious  store, 
Which,  spendthrift-like,  'twould  fain  give  lavishly. 

But  when  again  thou  comest,  methinks  I  tremble 
Such  priceless  gifts  of  fondness  to  bestow, 

And  then  love's  boundless  wealth  I  would  dissemble, 
Lest  thou  insatiate  with  thy  riches  grow. 


WILT  thou  remember,  when  years  are  gone  by, 
O  !  wilt  thou  remember  the  hour  we  first  met, 
When,  'mid  words  of  calm  greeting,  one  glance 

of  thine  eye 
Awakened  the  passion  that  haunteth  us  yet  ? 

O  !  wilt  thou  remember  how  coldly  we  turned, 
With  thoughts  full  of  gladness  and  spirits  elate, 

Nor  knew,  till  our  glances  on  each  other  burned, 
That  our  souls  in  that  moment  encountered  their  fate  ? 


parted  in  sadness,  yet  shed  not  a  tear ; 
We  parted  in  coldness,  for  cold  ones  stood  near  • 
No  vow  did  we  utter,  no  truth  did  we  plight, 
Our  hearts    hid    love's  bloom,  and' our    hearts    hid    its 
blight. 


350  POEMS. 

We  parted  in  coldness,  while  light  laugh  and  jest 
Concealed  the  keen  aching  that  woke  in  each  breast 
We  took  but  one  look,  'twas  our  fondest  and  last ; 
In  that  moment  a  life-time  of  bitterness  past. 

We  parted  in  sadness  :  when  years  have  gone  by, 
Will  the  heart  be  as  cold  as  the  lip  and  the  eye  ? 
Ah,  no  !  pride  may  stifle  the  sigh  of  regret, 
But  our  brief  dream  of  passion  we  cannot  forget. 


AKE,  lady,  wake,  while  the  night-clew  is  weeping 

Its  tear-drop  o'er  earth's  faded  roses  ; 
Wake,  lady,  wake,  while  the  violet  is  sleeping 
On  banks  where  the  starlight  reposes. 

Wake,  lady,  wake,  for  the  moments  are  flying, 

That  only  to  true  hearts  belong ; 
All  things  in  silence  and  slumber  are  lying  : 

Waken  to  love  and  to  song. 


E  knew  we  were  parting  forever  ; 

We  knew  time  could  never  restore 
The  bonds  we  were  destined  to  sever, 
The  love  we  had  cherished  of  yore  ; 
We  knew  our  best  joys  had  been  tasted, 

We  knew  we  could  never  wend  back 
To  the  fountain  whose  freshness  was  wasted 
In  the  sands  of  life's  overpast  track. 


SO^VGS  FOR  MUSIC.  351 

As  the  maiden  in  elfin  story 

Anointed  her  long-cheated  eyes, 
And  beheld  that  all  fairy-land  glory 

Was  falsehood  in  glittering  guise ; 
So  we  now,  with  soul  disenchanted, 

Our  brief  dream  of  passion  may  see, 
But  alas  !  by  its  memories  haunted, 

We  weep  from  its  thrall  to  be  free. 


THE  CHILD'S  DESTINY. 

angel  was  watching  a  slumbering  child  ; 
His    presence    had    brought   there  a  beautiful 

dream, 
So  the  babe  in  its  innocent  loveliness  smiled, 

And  o'er  its  bright  face  passed  a  summer  gleam  ; 
But  the  brow  of  the  angel  grew  sad,  for  his  eye 
Marked  the  shadows  of  destiny  gathering  nigh. 

"O!  would  it  were  mine,''  sighed  the  angel,  "to  strew 
O'er  thy  life's  future  pathway  my  bright  Eden  flowers, 

And  to  shed  on  thine  eyelids  the  soft  honey-dew 
Of  a  slumber  like  this  of  thy  calm  infant  hours  ! 

But  already  hath  gone  forth  the  changeless  decree, 

And  the  chaplet  of  sorrow  is  woven  for  thee. 

"  Yet  thine  eye  shall  be  touched  with  a  holier  light 
When  that  chaplet  is  pressing  thy  weary  brow, 

And  the  anguish  that  facleth  thee,  never  shall  blight 
The  beauty  God  gives  as  thy  birthright  now  ; 

The  fires  of  affliction  thy  soul  shall  refine, 

For  the  touch  of  grief  hallows  a  nature  like  thine. 

"  Then  will  I  come  to  thy  troubled  sleep, 
And  sing  thee  a  song  of  my  native  heaven  ; 


TIME'S  CHANGES.  353 

Bright  visions  of  beauty  thy  spirit  shall  steep, 
And  a  cherub's  voice  to  thy  lips  be  given, 
Till  thy  look  and  thy  song,  in  thy  life's  saddest  years, 
Shall  unlock  the  deep  fountains  of  sympathy's  tears." 


TIME'S  CHANGES. 

REMEMBER  the  time  when  thine  eye's  starry 

light 
Was  as  gladdening  to  all  things   as    sunshine 

in  spring  ; 
When    thy  smile    made    an    atmosphere    round   thee    as 

bright 

As  the  sudden  unfolding  of  some  cherub's  wing: 
O  !  beautiful  wert  thou  with  youth  on  thy  brow, 
But  trust  me,  beloved,  thou  art  lovelier  now. 

Thine  eye's  starry  lustre  is  softened  by  tears, 
And  the  bloom  of  thy  beauty  has  faded  away  ; 

But  ne'er  in  thy  gladdest  and  sunniest  years 
Did  the  high  soul  within  shed  so  holy  a  ray  : 

O  !  beautiful  wert  thou  with  youth  on  thy  brow, 

But  trust  me,  beloved,  thou  art  lovelier  now. 

Life's  roses  have  vanished,  life's  freshness  has  fled  ; 

Thy  future  no  longer  Hope's  pencil  may  paint ; 
But  the  halo  that  sorrow  has  cast  round   thy  head 

Has  made  of  our  Hebe  an  exquisite  saint  : 
O  !  beautiful  wert  thou  with   youth  on  thy  brow, 
But  trust  me,  beloved,  thou  art  lovelier  now. 


354  POEMS. 


SONG. 

>HOU  art  changed  ;    thou  art    changed  !    though 

the  tender  smile  plays 

O'er  thy  lip  as  it  did  in  our  love's  golden  days 
Though  thine  eye    still    grows  bright  when  my  footstep 

draws    near, 

Though  thy  voice  still  as  tenderly  falls  on  mine  ear, 
Though  no  outward  sign  showeth  thy  heart  is  estranged, 
Yet  my  soul's  deep  voice  whispers,  thou'rt  changed,  aye, 
thou'rt  changed  ! 

Though  the  warm  flush  of  feeling  still  mantles  thy  cheek. 
No  more  for  me  only  its  warm  blushes  speak  ; 
Though  thy  hand  still  as  fondly  seems  resting  in  mine, 
Yet  its  touch  sends  no  thrill  from    my  heart's  pulse  to 

thine  ; 

I  cannot  say  how  I  first  knew  thee  estranged, 
But    my    soul's    prophet    voice    whispers,  changed  —  O  ! 

thou'rt  changed. 


SONNET. 

BRUISED  and  broken  heart,  O  God  !  I  bring 
To  lay  upon  thine  altar ;  it  has  striven 
Rebellious  'gainst  thy  will,  and  madly  given 
Its  precious   things  to  idols,  and  doth  cling 


SONNET  ON  RECEIVING  SOME   VIOLETS.        355 

E'en  yet  to  earthly  love,  whose  venomed  sting 

Has  poisoned  all  the  charities  of  life, 

Turning  its  life-blood  into  tears  and  strife. 
O  let  me  nestle  'neath  the  Dove's  pure  wing ! 
Send  clown  the  Comforter,  that  He  may  lay 

The  balm  of  healing  on  my  aching  brow, 
And  with  his  radiant  presence  chase  away 

The  dark  and  frowning  shapes  that  haunt  me  now, 
For  I  am  fainting  'neath  my  great  despair, 
Crushed  by  the  burden  of  a  granted  prayer. 


SONNET 

ON    RECEIVING    SOME    VIOLETS    IN    MIDWINTER. 

'HE  cloud-flecked  sunshine  of  an  April  day, 
The  changeful  beauty  of  its  lights  and  shades, 
Falling  athwart  the  newly  herbaged  glades, 
Or  marking  out  some  tiny  streamlet's  way ; 
A  pleasant  fancy  of  each  pleasant  thing 

That  comes  when  storms  have  vanished  from  the  sky  ; 
A  vision  of  the  fairy-footed  Spring 

Stooping  to  kiss  the  violet's  half-shut  eye,  — 
These  are  the  dreams  that  paint  my  chamber  walls 

With  many  a  woodland  haunt  in  wintry  hour; 
And  sweet  bird-voices  and  low  insect-calls 

Seem  to  make  musical  each  sylvan  bower  ; 
'Such  genial  influence  on  my  spirit  falls, 

Waked  by  the  faint,  sweet  perfume  of  a  flower. 


POEMS. 


"DUM  SPIRO,  SPERO." 

UM  spiro,  spero  ;  "  while  I  breathe,  I  hope : 
O  !  God  be  thanked  above  all  else  for  this,  • 
The  only  gift  within  the  world's  wide  scope 
Which  in  its  ceaseless  promise  bringeth  bliss. 

"  Dum  spiro,  spero  ;  "  life  and  hope  entwined  : 
Grief  may  o'ershadow  us  and  pain  destroy, 

But  in  our  inmost  spirit  is  enshrined 
This  sweet  expectancy  of  coming  joy. 

'•  Dum  spiro,  spero  :  "  till  our  latest  breath 
Our  human  nature  hath  its  cherished  dream  ; 

But  Immortality  is  born  of  Death, 

And  bliss  eternal  dims   Hope's  earthly  beam. 


LINES 

ON    SEEING    A    SEAL    WITH    THE    MOTTO    "  SEMPRE    LO 
STESSO." 


E  lo  stesso,"  always  the  same,  — 
Such  be  the  motto  affixed  to  thy  name  ; 
"  Sempre  lo  stesso,"  always  the  same,  — 
Thy  thoughts    mounting    up    like    the    heaven-pointing 

flame  ; 
"  Sempre  lo  stesso,"  when  duty's  lone  star 


LLYES  ON  BURNING  SOME  OLD  JOURNALS,  ETC.    357 

Shineth  above  thy  life's  waters  afar  ; 
"  Sempre  lo  stesso,"  when  troubles  arise, 
Looking  still  upward  for  help  from  the  skies  ; 
"  Sempre  lo  stesso,"  when  joy  shineth  bright, 
Remembering  the  day  comes,  and  also  the  night  ; 
"  Sempre  lo  stesso,"  when  grief's  frequent  cloud 
Threatens  thy  young  hopes  in  darkness  to  shroud  ; 
"  Sempre  lo  stesso,"  when  fails  thy  last  breath, 
True  to  thyself,  to  thy  God,  to  thy  faith  ; 
"  Sempre  lo  stesso,"  in  life  and  in  death. 


LINES' 

ON    BURNING    SOME    OLD    JOURNALS    AND    LETTERS. 

YE,  let  them  perish :  why  recall 

Dreams  of  a  by- gone  day  ? 
Why  lift  Oblivion's  funeral  pall 
to  find  decay  ? 
The  heart 'of  youth  lies  buried  there, 

With  all  its  hopes  and  fears, 
Its  burning  joys,  its  wild  despair, 
Its  agonies  and  tears. 

A  light  has  vanished  from  the  earth, 

A  glory  left  the  sky, 
Since  first  within  my  soul  had  birth 

Those  visions  pure  and  high  ; 


358  POEMS. 

Or  is  it  that  mine  eye,  grown  dim, 
Hath  lost  the  power  to  trace 

The  glory  of  the  seraphim 
Within  life's  holy  place  ? 

Methinks  I  stand  midway  between 

The  future  and  the  past ; 
The  onward  path  is  dimly  seen, 

Behind  me  clouds   are  cast : 
Why  should  I  seek  to  pierce  that  gloom, 

And  call  the  buried  host 
Of  haunting  memories  from  the  tomb,  — 

Each  one  a  tortured  ghost  ? 

I  could  not  look  upon  the  page, 

With  eloquence  o'erfraught, 
Where,  ere  my  head  had  grown  so  sage, 

My  heart  its  wild  will  wrought  ; 
I  could  not,  would  not  ponder  now 

O'er  my  youth's  wayward  madness, 
Which  left  no  stain  on  soul  or  brow, 

Yet  shrouded  life  in  sadness. 

Aye,  let  them  perish  !  from  the  dream 

Of  passion's  wasted  hour 
There  comes  no  retrospective  gleam, 

No  spectre  of  the  flower  ; 
The  treasured  wealth  of  Eastern  kings 

Enriched  their  burial  fire, 
And  thus  my  heart's  most  precious  things 

Shall  build  its  funeral  pyre. 


LAMENT  (OF  ONE  OF  THE  OLD  REGIME}.      359 


LAMENT  (OF  ONE  OF  THE  OLD  REGIME). 

THE  times  will  never  be  again 
•'     As  they  were  when  we  were  young : 
When  Scott  was  writing  "  Waverleys," 
And  Moore  and  Byron  sung  ; 
When  Harolds,  Giaours,  and  Corsairs  came 

To  charm  us  every  year, 

And  "  Loves  "  of  "  Angels  "  kissed  Tom's  cup, 
While  Wordsworth  sipped  small  beer  ; 

When  Campbell  drank  of  Helicon, 

And  didn't  mix  his  liquor  ; 
When  Wilson's  strong  and  steady  light 

Had  not  begun  to  flicker  ; 
When  Southey,  climbing  piles  of  books, 

Mouthed  "  Curses  of  Kehama," 
And  Coleridge  in  his  dreams  began 

Strange  oracles  to  stammer; 

When  Rogers  sent  his  "  Memory," 

Thus  hoping  to  delight  us, 
Before  he  learned  his  mission  was 

To  give  feeds  and  invite  us  ; 
When  James  Montgomery's  "  weak  tea "  strains 

Enchanted  pious  people, 
Who  didn't  mind  poetic  haze, 

If  through  it  loomed  a  steeple  ; 

When  first  reviewers  learned  to  show 
Their  judgment  without  mercy  ; 


360  POEMS. 

When  "  Blackwood  "  was  as  young  and  lithe 

As  now  he's  old  and  pursy ; 
When  Gifford,  Jeffrey,  and  their  clan 

Could  fix  an  author's  doom, 
And  Keats  was  taught  how  well  they  knew 

To  kill,  "a  coup  de  plume.'' 

No  women  folk  were  rushing  then 

Up  the  Parnassian  mount, 
And  seldom  was  a  teacup  dipped 

In  the  Castalian  fount ; 
Apollo  kept  no  pursuivant 

To  cry  out,  "  Place  aux  Dames  !  " 
In  life's  round  game  they  held  good  hands, 

And  didn't  strive  for  palms. 

O,  the  world  will  never  be  again 

WThat  it  was  when  we  were  young, 
And  shattered  are  the  idols  now 

To  which  our  boyhood  clung ; 
Gone  are  the  giants  of  those  days 

For  whom  our  bays  we  twined, 
And  pigmies  now  kick  up  a  dust 

To  show  the  "  march  of  mind." 


THE  JEALOUS  LOVER'S  EXCUSE.  361 


LINES  SENT  TO  A  FRIEND,  WITH  A  PER 
FUMED  "SACHET." 

S  odors,  prisoned  in  soft  silken  cells, 

Give  out  their  subtile  essence  to  the  air, 
Betraying  where  the  soul  of  sweetness  dwells, 
And  waking  summer  dreams  of  flowerets  fair,  — 

Thus,  when  life's  daily  blossoms  round  thee  fade, 
And  hope's  sweet  song  falls  fainter  on  thine  ear, 

Thus  would  I  have  love's  memories  pervade 

Thy  heart  and  home  through  many  a  wintry  year. 

I  would  not  be  within  thy  soul  enshrined, 
A  drooping,  sad-eyed  spectre  of  the  past; 

But  let  one  thought  of  me,  vague,  half-defined, 
Float  round  thee,  like  sweet  perfume  on  the  blast. 


THE  JEALOUS  LOVER'S  EXCUSE. 

ORGIVE  the  doubt !  the  flower  that  springs 

Only  beneath  the  sunbeam's  light, 
Trembles  at  every  cloud  which  flings 
Its  portent  of  the  coming  night ; 
Thus  when  on  others  lightly  fall 
The  smiles  which  are  my  life,  my  all, 
What  marvel  if  my  heart's  wild  thrill 
Should  seem  to  presage  future  ill  ? 


5  6 .2  POEMS. 

Forgive  the  doubt !  the  breeze  that  sweeps 

O'er  ocean's  ever  ruffled  brow 
Sends  its  vibration  to  the  deeps 

Which  lie  so  cold  and  still  below  ; 
Its  breath  scarce  stirs  the  sea-gull's  plume, 
Its  swell  may  seal  a  proud  ship's  doom  ; 
So  words  that  to  thy  lip  come  free 
May  stir  the  depths  of  woe  for  me. 

Forgive  the  doubt !  the  moon  that  rides 

At  noon  of  night  her  pearly  car, 
Knows  not  that  all  earth's  myriad  tides 

Await  her  influence  from  afar  ; 
Thus,  bright  one,  thou,  whose  look  can  still 
Each  impulse  of  my  wayward  will, 
Unconscious  of  thine  own  sweet  art, 
Dost  reign  and  triumph  in  each  heart. 


THE  PROPHECY. 

the    pride  on  thy  lip,  and    the    light    in  thine 

eye 

I  know  thou  hast  visions,  pure,  noble,  and  high  ; 
Thou  hast  dreams  of  a  future  illumined  by  fame, 
Where  a  halo  of  glory  encircles  thy  name  ; 
Already  in  fancy  thou  seest  the  glad  hour 
When  thy  look  shall  command,  and  thy  word  shall  have 
power  : 


STANZAS.  363 

But  thy  doom  has  been  spoken  ;  thou'rt  under  a  spell ; 
"  Unstable  as  water,  thou  shalt  not  excel." 

There  is  love  in  thy  heart,  too,  for  tenderness  lies 
Like  a  reflex  of  heaven  in  the  depth  of  thine  eyes  ; 
There  is  love  in  thine   heart,  and    sweet  words   on   thy 

tongue, 

And  the  charm  of  warm  feeling  around  thee  is  flung  ; 
So  lovely  without  and  so  kindly  within, 
Thou  wilt  look  but  to  charm,  thou  wilt  woo  but  to  win  : 
Yet  thy  doom  has  been  spoken  ;  thou'rt  under  the  spell ; 
"  Unstable  as  water,  thou  canst  not  excel." 


STANZAS. 

rear  thine  altar  to  Ideal  Love, 
And  heap  with  costliest  sacrifice  the  shrine  ; 
'f he  fairest  chaplet  fancy  ever  wove 
From    thought's    most   precious   jewels,   there    should 
shine. 

Aye,  rear  thine  altar  high,  and  on  it  lay 
All  that  thy  nature  has  of  highest,  best  ; 

Bid  thy  mind  coin  new  wealth  there  day  by  day, 
And  in  thy  lavish  offering  be  thou  blest. 

But  write  no  name  upon  the  altar-stone, 

Shape  out  no  image  of  thy  soul's  bright  dreams, 


364  POEMS. 

Adore  the  unseen  spirit-god   alone, 

Nor  crown  a  mortal  brow  with  heaven's  own  beams. 

The  fantasies  that  thrill  thine  every  vein, 

The  pearls  that  melt  in  passion's  burning  cup, 

Youth's  many-colored  dreams,  half  joy,  half  pain, 
Its  vows  so  true,  so  lightly  offered  up,  — 

O  mingle  not  these  sweets  of  daily  life 
With  the  rich  gifts  thy  soul's  ideal  claims  ! 

Thy  human  nature  has  its  woes  and  strife, 

Its  strong  requirements  and  its  cherished  aims. 

The  love  that  from  an  earthly  fountain  springs 

Alone  can  satisfy  that  human  quest ; 
The  bird  that  highest  soars,  on  strongest  wings, 

Yet  stoops  to  earth  to  find  a  quiet  nest. 

But  recognize  thy  yearnings,  vague  and  vain, 
As  dim  remembrances  of  that  bright  world 

Whence  thou  wert  missioned  on  some  task  of  pain, 
Or  haply  for  a  parent's  errors  hurled. 

Till  God  has  loosed  thy  being's  weary  bond, 
That  angel  light  will  flash  o'er  heart  and  brain, 

Filling  thy  soul  with  aspirations  fond 

And  winning  thee  to  thy  lost  heaven  again. 


THE    GARDEN.  365 


THE  GARDEN. 

WHAT  a  world  of  beauty  lies  within 
The  narrow  space  on  which  mine  eye  now  rests  ! 
And  yet  how  cold  and  tintless  seem  the  words 
That  fain  would  picture  to  another's  sense 
Those  tall,  dark  trees,  whose  young,  fresh-budded  leaves 
Give  out  their  music  to  the  summer  wind  ; 
Or  that  green  turf,  with  golden  drops  besprent, 
As  if  Aurora,  bending  down  to  gaze 
On"  scene  so  lovely,  from  her  saffron  crown 
Had  dropped  some  blossoms  as  she  sped  along  ! 
What  joyous  language  could  be  found  to  paint 
Yon  vine  with  its  lithe  tendrils  dancing  wild, 
As  if  inebriate  with  th'  inspiring  blood 
That  courses  through  its  old  and  sturdy  heart  ? 
What  rainbow-tinted  words  could  sketch  the  flowers 
Vi*hich  through  the  copse-like  leanness  gleam  out? 
First  in  her  beauty  stands  the  festal  rose, 
Wearing  with  stately  pride  night's  dewy  pearls 
Yet  fresh  upon  her  brow,  as  if  to  show 
That  none  might  woo  her,  save  the  evening-star, 
Yet  e'en  now  hiding  in  her  heart  of  hearts 
The  bee  that  lives  on  sweetness. 

At  her  feet, 

With  eye  scarce  lifted  from  earth's  mossy  bed, 
The  pansy  wears  her  purple  robe  and  crown, 
As  modestly  as  a  young  maiden  queen, 
Abashed  at  her  own  state. 

The  hoyden  pink 
(Like  some  wild  beauty  scorning  fashion's  garb), 


366  POEMS. 

In  her  exuberant  loveliness,  breaks  loose 
From  the  green  bodice  b}'  Dame  Nature  laced, 
And  bares  her  fragrant  bosom  to  the  winds. 
The  honeysuckle,  climbing  high  in  air, 
Swings  her  perfumed  censer  toward  heaven, 
Giving  forth  incense  such  as  never  breathed 
From  gemmed  and  golden  chalice,  or  carved  urn 
In  dim  cathedral  aisles. 

All  things  around 

Are  redolent  of  sweetness  and  of  beauty, 
And,  as  beside  the  casement  I  recline, 
Prisoned  by  sickness  to  the  couch  of  pain, 
Their  mingled  odors  to  my  senses  come, 
Like  the  spice-scented  breath  of  Indian  isles 
To  the  sick  sailor,  who,  'mid  watery  wastes, 
Pines  for  one  glimpse  of  the  green  earth  again, 
And  sees  the  cheating  calenture  arise 
To  mock  his  yearning  dreams. 

Yet  thus  to  lie, 

With  such  a  glimpse  of  Eden  spread  before  me, 
And  such  a  blue  and  lucid  sky  above, 
As  might  have  stretched  its  interposing  veil 
'Twixt  sinless  man  and  heaven's  refulgent  host, 
When  heaven  seemed  nearer  to  the  earth  than  now, 
And  the  Almighty  talked  amid  the  trees 
With  his  last,  best  creation,  —  thus  to  lie, 
E'en  though  in  bondage  to  bewildering  pain, 
And  fettered  by  unnerving  feebleness 
To  one  small  spot,  is  happiness  so  much 
Beyond  my  poor  cleservings,  that  each  breath 
Goes  forth  like  a  thanksgiving  from  my  lips. 


FRAGMENT.  367 

Hark  !  merry  voices  now  are  on  the  breeze, 
While  glad  young  faces  smile  through  leafy  screens, 
And  where  the  arrowy  sunbeams  pierce  their  way 
Like  random  shafts  sent  'mid  the  clustering  boughs, 
The  sheen  of  snowy  robes  is  gleaming  out ; 
Thus  by  her  own  pure  brightness  I  can  trace 
The  fleeting  footsteps  of  that  blessed  one 
Who  to  my  glad  youth  like  an  angel   came, 
Folded  her  pinions  in  my  happy  home, 
And  called  me  "  Mother." 

To  my  o'erfraught  soul 
These  images  of  all  my  home  joys  come 
Like  rose-leaves  strewn  upon  a  brimming  cup, 
And  in  its  very  fullness  of  content 
My  heart  grows  calm,  while  every  pulse  is  hushed 
With  a  most  tremulous  stillness. 


FRAGMENT. 

'HE  fire  within  my  soul  burns  dim  and  low, 
Like  some  neglected  cresset's  dying  glow, 
And  my  heart's  pulse  beats  fitfully  and  slow, 
E'en  as  a  bell  in  ruined  turret  hung, 
When  by  the  gusty  night  breeze  feebly  swung, 
Making  no  pleasant  sounds,  as  to  and  fro 
Through  the  thick  air  its  dull  vibrations  go. 
The  light  is  darkened  on  my  spirit's  shrine, 
And  silent  are  the  oracles  of  thought  ; 


368  POEMS. 

Hushed  are  the  echoes  of  that  voice  divine 
Whose  faintest  tone  my  inner  sense  once  caught ; 

No  bright  descending  angel  flings 

From  off  his  glorious  wings 
The  hues  of  Paradise  o'er  earthly  things  ; 
No  heavenly  dreams  like  seraphs  round  me  throng, 
Filling  life's  temple  with  the  voice  of  song. 

Fain  would  I  lift 

My  soul  in  adoration,  but  no  more 
Upon  my  lips  I  feel  the  precious  gift 
Of  eloquent  utterance,  as  in  days  of  yore  ; 
Yet  there  are  times  when  o'er  my  dull  brain  floats 
A  strain  of  fleeting  music,  and  the  notes 
Seem  like  articulate  words ;  then  would  I  fain 
Forget  the  weary  weight  of  wasting  pain, 
And  pour  forth  all  the  love  that  now  lies  mute, 
Like  the  tones  hidden  in  a  stringless  lute. 


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